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B2.C3 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/celtsparadiseinfOObani 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


THE 

} 

CELT’S  PARADISE, 

IN  FOUR  DUANS. 


BY 

JOHN  BANIM, 

AUTHOR  OF  “DAMON  AND  PYTHIAS,”  ETC. 


< What  dreams  may  c,  ^ Jj  PjB #■/* 

/Skcnlfsp^c,  r» 

H 


BOSTON 

A 

%.  e/?/or  Ses^V' 


NEW  YORK. 

1).  & J.  SADLIER  & CO.,  31  BARCLAY  STREET. 

MONTREAL  I 

COR  NOTRE  DAME  AND  ST.  FRANCIS  XAVIER  STS. 


1 8 6 9. 


BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRARf 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS, 


3 *£* 


a 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


Metrical  Dialogues,  purporting  to  have  occurred 
between  Ossian  (or  Ossin)  and  St.  Patrick,  are,  to  this 
day,  recited  by  the  old  peasantry  of  the  North  and 
South  of  Ireland ; and  specimens  of  them  have  been 
for  some  time  before  the  public,  in  Miss  Brooks’  trans- 
lation of  “Reliques  of  Irish  Poetry.”  A recollection 
of  one  or  other,  or  both  of  these  circumstances, 
unconsciously  suggested  the  opening  situation  of  the 
following  poem. 

An  illustrious  Scots  poet,  who  condescended  to 
bestow  some  flattering  and  advantageous  criticism  on 
the  first  manuscript  of  the  “ Celt’s  Paradise,”  thought 
the  tale  like  “a  tradition  of  the  amour  between  the 
prophetic  poet,  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  and  the  Queen 
of  the  Fairies.’*  Such  similarity  will,  of  course,  be 
apparent  to  the  general  reader ; and  the  Author  takes 
leave  to  mention  it  only  for  the  purpose  of  saying, 
that  the  “ Celt’s  Paradise”  was  written  before  he  had 


IV 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


ever  heard  of  the  story  to  which  that  illustrious  poet 
has  done  him  the  honor  of  alluding.  He  begs  to 
add  that,  though  in  the  following  pages  Ossian  ap- 
pears surrounded  with  Irish  connections  exclusively, 
and  though  the  “ hall  of  Allen  ” is  substituted  for  that 
of  “ woody  Morven,”  these  and  other  accompaniments 
were  adopted,  rather  for  the  sake  of  poetical  consist- 
ency, than  with  any  reference  to  the  justice  of  their 
appropriation  in  a local  or  national  point  of  view. 


TO 


THE  RIGHT  HON.  LORD  CLONCURRY, 


AS  A SMALL  TRIBUTE  OF 


THE  AUTHOR’S  ADMIRATION 

OF 

HIS  LORDSHIP’S 


PUBLIC  SPIRIT  AND  LOYE  OF  COUNTRY, 


THE  FOLLOWING  POEM 


IS  MOST  RESPECTFULLY 


INSCRIBED. 


/ 


THE 


CELT’S  PARADISE 


FIRST  DCAN. 


OSSIAN. 

Man  of  prayers,  lead  me  forth 
From  our  silent  cell  of  care, 

The  morning-breeze  to  me  is  worth 
All  thy  hymns  and  all  thy  prayer — 

For  dark  and  lonely  have  we  prayed — 

Our  psalms  are  sung,  our  penance  said — 
Thou  hast  told  me,  I am  forgiven, 

And  I long  to  live  in  the  smile  of  heaven. 

I cannot  see  the  holy  light, 

But  I feel  it  on  my  brow  of  white— 

I cannot  see  the  young  bird  soaring, 

But  I hear  the  song  his  pride  is  pouring — 

I cannot  see  the  laughing  water, 

Nor  the  fresh  beauty  the  sun  has  brought  her 
I only  hear  the  moan  she  is  making, 

Over  her  bed  of  pebbles  breaking. 


8 


THE  CELT  S PARADISE. 


Man  of  prayers,  lead  me  on — 

Lead  the  son  of  Comlial’s  son, 

To  the  hill  where  his  early  deeds  were  done — 
Lead  me  to  Slieve  Gullian’s  breast, 

And  give  me  there  my  mournful  rest. 

Ossian  longs  to  lie  alone 

And  think  of  days  and  dangers  gone — 

The  darkened  soul  of  Ossian  longs 
To  float  on  the  stream  of  other  songs 
Than  those  thy  altar  bells  are  ringing, 

And  thy  wliite-robed  Culdees  singing. 

This  is  the  place — I know  it  now, 

I feel  its  freshness  on  my  brow ! 

Lead  me  where  the  sun  is  brightest, 

Where  the  storm-washed  stone  is  whitest, 

And  there  in  solitude  let  me  sit 
As  silent  and  as  lorn  as  it ! 

Yield  me  now  my  sad  request, 

Leave  me — leave  me  to  my  rest. 


Dark  and  dread  King ! Euler  alone  ! 

Deep  stream  that  we  think  not  is  passing  on, 

And  yet  it  goes  forward  and  is  gone, 

Where,  O Time  ! is  thy  hidden  source, 

When  wilt  thou  rest  thee  from  thy  course  ? — 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


9 


A pilgrim  art  thou  on  thy  path. 

And  thou  hast  the  solitude  he  hath  ; 

Thy  step  is  alone  by  the  dark  deep  river, 

And  forward  thou  walkest  ever  and  ever  ! 

But  art  thou  of  thyself — Alone 
From  thine  own  power  ? — Or  has  one 
More  awful  still  the  staff  supplied, 

That  props  thee  in  thy  walk  of  pride, 

And  bade  thy  stream  for  ever  flow, 

And  pointed  thee  the  way  to  go  ? — 

Stern  and  relentless  is  thy  sway  ! — 

And  withering  as  the  worms  of  the  clay 
Thy  kisses  are ! — At  thy  dark  coming 
The  waters  of  the  heart  grow  chill — 

Thy  breath  her  wildest  wish  benumbing, 

And  bidding  her  proudest  throb  be  still ! — 

Thou  walkest  forth  into  the  wild 
And  at  thy  touch  the  forest-king 
Bows  his  wreathed  head ! — She  who  hath  smiled 
In  beauty’s  blush,  the  loveliest  thing 
Of  all — thy  finger  passeth  over 

Her  cheek,  and  what  remains  behind ! 

Thou  shroudest  in  thy  mantle’s  cover 
The  highest  hero  of  his  kind — 

In  his  last  house  thou  hid’st  him  then, 

And  why  should  we  say  he  lived  ? Thou  changest 
To  wilds  the  fair  abodes  of  men, 

And  in  the  wilderness  once  again 
A pile  of  palaces  thou  ranges! 


10 


THE  CELT  S PARADISE. 


Wliere  chiefs  among  their  thousands  trod, 

And  thousands  worshipped  at  their  nod, 

There  hast  thou  spread  the  stagnant  waters— 
There  hast  thou  sent  the  creeping  thing 

To  hiss,  and  the  heron  to  flap  his  wing 

And  once  where  Beauty’s  laughing  daughters 
Had  their  bright  bower,  there  hast  thou  made 
For  the  lone  fox  a hiding-shade — 

A solitude  no  prayer  may  bless — 

A place  of  fear  and  loneliness ! 


The  solid  earth  and  roaring  ocean 
Obey  the  biddings  of  thy  voice ! — 

Where  valleys  smiled  the  river  is  in  motion, 
And  his  dimpling  waters  all  rejoice ! 

And  where  the  proud  sea  often  broke 
His  swelling  waves  in  ceaseless  shock, 

There  hast  thou  bade  the  green  grass  shoot, 
And  the  tall  tree  settle  and  get  root ! 


And  more  than  this  thou  hast  to  do ! — 
The  rugged  rocks  and  the  mountains  blue 
Must  crumble  and  fall ! — 

The  stars  must  fade  as  words  from  a page, 
And  the  light  of  the  world  wander  in  age  ! — 
He  must  end  his  proud  career  on  high, 

And  fail — and,  gathered  in  thy  pall, 

He  must  shut  for  ever  his  radiant  eye  ! 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


11 


Link  after  link  thy  chain  creeps  fast 
Around  the  world  ; it  will  close  at  last  : 

And  all  tilings  then  will  be  fettered  by  thee. 
And  lonely  and  stern  will  thy  triumph  be ! 

THE  SAINT. 

Ossian,  then  too  our  triumphs  come 
Over  death,  and  time,  and  the  tomb — 

Then  shall  we  win  with  effort  free, 

Over  the  victors,  victory. 

OSSIAN. 

Man  of  prayers,  why  return 
To  quench  the  thought  that  fain  would  burn? 
I am  old  and  most  forlorn, 

And  my  only  rapture  is  to  mourn. 

I know  the  grave  is  dark  and  deep, 

Yet  I wish  I had  its  pleasant  sleep. 

THE  SAINT. 

Ossian,  the  grave  is  only  dark 
For  him  whose  spirit  feels  no  spark 
Of  Christian  sorrow  for  the  sin 
He  long  has  lived  and  wantoned  in  : 

But  he  wdio  prays,  and  hopes,  and  fears, 

And  for  his  life  sheds  bitter  tears, 

In  other  worlds  shall  win  more  bliss 
Than  he  may  think  or  dream  in  this. 


12 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


0SSIAN. 

I know  as  well  as  thou,  tlie  brave 
Have  endless  pleasures  past  the  grave. 
Good  chiefs  and  warriors  dwell  for  ever 
On  the  banks  of  a pleasant  river, 

Or  walk  with  ever-blushing  maids 
Thro’  flowery  fields  and  scented  shades. 
Or  hunt  the  hart  o’er  dale  and  hill, 

Or  in  their  bowers  sit  calm  and  still. 


THE  SAINT. 

The  joys  of  heaven  thou  hast  not  told  ; 
Nor  is  it  for  the  brave  and  bold 
Its  golden  gates  of  love  unfold  : 

The  good  alone,  or  weak,  or  strong, 

May  sing  in  heaven  their  holy  song, 

And  good  can  only  come  to  thee 
From  Christian  creed  and  charity. 

OSSIAN. 

And  for  this,  must  prayers  be  read, 
And  beads  be  told,  and  matins  said  ? 

And  he  that  doth  not  this,  and  more, 
Must  he  never  touch  that  shining  shore 
Of  joy  thou  preachest  ? — And  where  then 
Are  all  those  stern  and  mighty  men, 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


13 


"Whose  steps  were  on  their  own  green  hills, 

In  their  own  strength  ? — And  where  are  they, 
The  sources  of  the  blood  that  fills, 

Or  once  has  filled,  in  manhood’s  day, 

My  swelling  veins  ? — Say,  Psalmist,  say, 
Where  are  Finn  and  Comhal  now  ? 

And  thou,  the  darling  of  my  lay — 

. The  child  of  all  my  love ! whose  brow 
Was  bright  and  beautiful  as  day, — 

Osgur — my  son ! — where,  where  art  thou  ? 

Man  of  prayers,  would’st  teach  me  this  ? 

And  think’st  thou  I could  share  a bliss 
Unshared  with  them?  To  be  alone 
In  a strange  heaven,  unloved,  unknown, 

As  I am  now,  and  have  no  breast 
To  slumber  on  and  give  me  rest — 

This  may  be  joy,  old  man,  to  thee — 

But,  oh ! it  were  dreary  and  dark  for  me ! 

THE  SAINT. 

God  hath  his  mercies.  They  who  went 
Down  to  the  grave  before  he  sent 
His  word  to  warn  them  of  the  way, — 

For  them  he  doth  not  bid  me  say 
Exclusion  from  eternal  day. 

OSSIAN. 

Man  of  prayers,  I wish  not 
The  raptures  of  thy  cloudless  lot. 


14 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


Enjoy  tliy  heaven.  I know  where  lies 
Old  Ossian’s  only  paradise ! — 

’Tis  with  the  beautiful  and  brave, 
Beyond  the  wild  and  wailing  wave 
Of  this  cold  world.  The  summer  there 
Is  cloudless,  calm,  and  ever  fair. 

I saw  it  once ! — My  ’wakened  blood 
At  that  one  thought  rolls  back  the  flood 
Of  age  and  sorrow,  and  swells  up 
Like  old  wine  sparkling  o’er  its  cup. 

I’ll  tell  thee  of  the  time  I spent 
Beneath  that  cloudless  firmament, 

And  thou  shalt  judge  if  aught  could  be 
So  pure  a paradise  to  me — 

If  by  my  own  frail  spirit  led 

Its  smile  I had  not  forfeited. 

Give  me  the  old  Clarseech  I hung 
On  my  loved  tree  ; so  long  unstrung, 
Even  to  its  master’s  measure  free 
It  may  refuse  its  minstrelsy  : 

But  give  it — and  the  song,  tho’  cold, 
May  kindle  at  a thought  of  old — 

Of  younger  days  ; and  now  and  then 
It  may  be  strong  and  bright  again. 

Hear  a song  of  age’s  daring — 

The  sighings  of  the  harp  of  Erin  ! 
Waken,  thou  warbler  of  the  West! 
Waken  from  thy  long,  long  rest ! 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


15 


All  day  we  chased  the  dark-brown  deer 
Thro’  woods  and  wilds  and  waters  clear: 

We  broke  the  dew  on  Allen’s  breast, 

And  we  met  the  evening  on  his  crest. 

Like  that  weak  beam,  I was  alone 

With  the  whispering  breeze  and  the  whitened  stone  ; 

It  was  an  hour  of  doubtful  light — 

Half  was  sunshine,  half  was  night ; 

And  the  moon,  like  maiden  young  and  coy, 

Half  struggling  with  a bashful  boy, 

Was  flickering  over  the  calm  clear  stream 
That  yet  blushed  red  in  the  evening  beam. 

I heard  upon  the  echoes  borne, 

A faint  and  far-off  hunting-horn. 

At  the  shrill  sound  my  steed,  though  spent, 

Pricked  up  his  ears  and  forward  went, 

Hoping  with  me  once  more  to  gain 
A party  of  our  hunting  train. 

Forward  we  went.  The  horn  grew  shrill 
And  shriller.  See ! — from  yonder  hill 
What  floating  form  of  virgin  fair — 

So  delicate,  it  looks  like  air — 

Comes  sweeping  on  at  utmost  speed. 

Low  bending  to  her  snowy  steed? 

The  dogs  are  straining  on  before  her — 

Her  train  is  descending  the  mountain  o’er  her — 

In  her  wild  flight  no  echo  wakes 
To  tell  the  bound  her  courser  takes — 


16 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


The  winter’s  wind  when  it  is  high, 

The  fire  flash  glancing  thro’  the  sky, 

Or  the  torrent  in  his  rudest  race, 

Are  not  so  rapid  as  that  chase  ! 

Aghast  I stood ! The  dogs  dashed  by — 
The  lady-huntress  next  swept  nigh — 

A moment  in  her  magic  speed 
She  slightly  curbed  her  milky  steed, 

And  looked  upon  me.  Oh  that  look 
Into  my  heart  of  hearts  I took  ! 

Nay,  scoff  not  Psalmist — for  by  the  light 
That  now  for  Ossian  no  more  is  bright, 

I tell  thee  that  one  look  of  her’s 
Would  make  thy  saints  idolaters ! — 

When  April’s  evening  sky  is  fair, 

If  its  golden  folds  uncurtained  were, 

All  but  a misty  veil  unriven 
Between  thee  and  thy  own  bright  heaven — 
And  if  thro’  it  young  angel  eyes 
Beamed  o’er  thee  in  thy  ecstacies, 

To  tell  of  pardon  for  thy  sin, 

And  give  thee  peace  and  smile  thee  in — 

It  would  be  like  the  glance  she  sent 
On  me  in  my  astonishment ! 

And  ’twas  enough  ! I gave  the  rein — 
My  steed  forgot  his  toil  and  pain, 

And  on  we  swept  o’er  hill  and  plain  ! — 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


17 


On,  on — thro’  heath,  and  stream,  and  wood — 
We  climbed  the  bank — we  broke  the  flood — 
But  all  was  mockery  to  the  flight 
Of  the  lady  on  her  steed  of  white ! 

I see  her  on  the  steep  hill’s  brow — 

I gain  it — she  sweeps  thro’  the  valley  now — 
Over  the  valley’s  breast  I strain, 

But  she  has  ascended  the  hill  again ! 

Like  winding  rivers  quick  and  bright, 

She  glanced  and  faded  on  my  sight : 

At  last  within  a brown  wood’s  shade 
A headlong  plunge  her  courser  made, 

And  I,  far  off,  was  left  to  gaze 
In  mute  distraction  and  amaze. 


Even  then  her  train — a fearful  crowd— 
Came  rushing  on  ; looks  strange  and  proud 
Flashed  for  a moment  on  my  face — 

Then  turned  to  track  that  noiseless  chase — 
For  as  I looked  no  echoing  sound 
Gave  answer  to  their  coursers’  bound, 

And  the  rushing  of  the  winds  alone 
Told  that  a hunter  had  passed  on. 


I feared  them  not,  tho’  well  I knew 
They  were  not  things  of  earth ! I drew 
And  firmly  clutched  my  own  good  blade  ; 
One  last  wild  race  my  courser  made, 


18 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


Tlio’  spent  and  reeling.  On,  still  on, 

Thro’  tangled  shades  and  wilds  unknown 
He  bore  me  well — nor  sigh,  nor  groan, 

When  down  he  softly  sunk  at  last, 

From  the  proud  beast  lamenting  past. 

I made  him  a couch  of  the  branches  green, 
And  he  had  for  his  shelter  the  forest  screen — 
I brought  him  fresh  grass  gathered  near, 

And  in  my  helmet  water  clear — 

I smoothed  and  bathed  his  drooping  crest, 
And  left  him  to  his  soothing  rest. 


I sat  in  the  tall  tree’s  trembling  shade, 
And  the  moss  of  its  trunk  my  pillow  made. 
My  eyes  could  not  their  watching  keep, 

My  soul  was  sinking  in  its  sleep, 

And  wild  and  wavering  thoughts  came  on 
Of  deeds  imagined,  actions  done, 

And  vain  hopes  mingling  with  the  true, 
And  real  things  a man  may  do. 

A sigh  came  o’er  me  soft  and  warm ! 

I started ! — but  nor  shade  nor  form 
Appeared  thro’  the  half-seen  gloom  around 
To  utter  such  a silver  sound. 

It  might  be  the  sob  of  the  summer  air 
Which  glowed  so  rich  and  sultry  there. 
Again  I slumbered — again  the  sigh 
Of  woman’s  fondness  fluttered  nigh — 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


19 


And  while  I listened,  gentle  lips 

Gently  met  mine, — and  touched,  and  trembled, — 
As  if  beneath  the  moon’s  eclipse 

Alone,  love’s  feeling  long  dissembled, 

Might  dare  to  own  in  bashful  kisses 
Its  maiden  flame  and  modest  blisses. 

Fondly  I raised  my  arms  and  press’d, — • 

They  closed  upon  my  lonely  breast. 

Back  from  their  kiss  the  young  lips  started — 
Sighed  one  rich  sigh — and  touched,  and  parted — 

I thought  of  the  huntress  young  and  fair, 

"Whose  gifted  glance  had  led  me  there, 

And  I said  in  the  strength  of  my  young  heart’s  sigh, 
While  the  tear  of  passion  brimmed  mine  eye — 

“ Lady  of  kisses  ! Lip  of  love ! 

From  the  air  around,  or  sky  above, 

Come  and  bless  my  desolate  arms 
With  the  richness  of  thy  charms.” 

“ Son  of  Earth !”  a small  voice  said, 

So  soft  it  might  be  the  west  wind 
Murmuring  thro’  a garden  bed, 

And  fraught  with  feeling,  heart  and  mind, 

And  lip,  and  language,  to  declare 
Its  love  for  any  floweret  fair — 

“ Son  of  Earth ! thy  sigh  is  vain, 

’Till  thou  can’st  join  our  hunting  train, 

Free  from  earthly  touch  or  stain. 


20 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


And  if  thou  hast  wish  to  hunt  with  me, 
Three  days  slialt  thou  silent  be — 

Three  days  and  nights  thou  shalt  not  sleep — 
Nor  sigh,  nor  smile — nor  laugh,  nor  wreep — 
Nor  warm  thy  wish  with  earthly  food — 

Nor  slake  thy  thirst  with  earthly  flood. 

When  thou  dost  this  for  love  of  me, 

Again  sleep  under  the  wild-wood  tree, 

And  pleasant  shall  thy  waking  be.” 


“ Child  of  the  breeze  ! — where — who  art  thou? 
Let  me  see  thy  lovely  brow !” 


“ Viewless  I am,  and  must  be,  till 
Thy  three  days’  task  thou  dost  fulfil. 

I am  of  the  people  of  the  hill — 

A Sidhdd  spirit,  pure  and  free 
From  all  the  cares  that  ’cumber  thee. 

I live  in  a land  where  the  blushing  light 
Is  always  constant,  calm,  and  bright ; 
Grief  is  not  there,  nor  age,  nor  death, 

But  evergreen  youth,  and  endless  breath, 
And  life  that  tires  not  with  the  living, 
And  love  that  loathes  not  with  the  giving. 
Stern  sons  of  men  who  struggling  die 
In  Virtue’s  cause,  or  Freedom’s  high, 
Come  there  across  the  waste  of  water, 
Guided  by  a Sidhd^’s  daughter, 


THE  CELT  S PARADISE, 


21 


And  live  at  leisure  calm  and  free, 

To  follow  what  their  wish  may  be. 

Son  of  Finn ! could’st  thou  forsake 
The  hills  that  now  thy  pleasure  make, 
Defying  death,  and  the  care  and  pain 
That  here  for  thy  old  white  hairs  remain, 

And  come  to  live  with  love  and  me, 

In  such  a land  of  liberty  ?” 

“ Voice  of  softness ! Cans’t  thou  love  me  ? 
Thou  art  a beam  too  far  above  me. 

I’d  fly  with  thee  thro’  the  waste  of  water, 

The  raging  flame,  or  the  field  of  slaughter, 
Thro’  deserts  where  man  no  footing  finds — 
Thro’  all  the  waves  and  all  the  winds ! 

Dost  thou  love  me,  child  of  light  ? — 

Is  Ossian  pleasant  in  thy  sight  ?” 

“ The  sigh  that  broke  thy  gentle  sleep 
Might  teach  thy  tongue  its  word  to  keep. 
Eeturn,  fair  Ossian,  to  thy  hill ; 

I will  be  here  to  love  thee  still.” 


SECOND  DUAN. 


I went  and  came.  The  wild- wood  tree 
Again  spread  out  my  canopy. 

I could  not  sleep.  I sat  in  grief 
And  listen’d  to  the  rustling  leaf. 

She  came  not  o’er  me  as  before — 

No  murmuring  breeze  her  whispers  bore — 
No  timid  touch  of  her  soft  lip 
From  mine  its  kisses  now  would  sip. 

A far-off  sigh  alone  I heard, 

Like  the  night-wind  thro’  the  thistle’s  beard. 
“ Why  wilt  thou  shun  me,  child  of  bliss  ? — 

I come  to  claim  thy  promised  kiss.” 

“ Thou  comest  to  claim,  but  hast  not  done 
Thy  promise  like  a faithful  one. 

This  morn  thy  sister,  who  hath  wept 
Because  thy  soft  sleep  was  unslept, 

In  Allen’s  stately  hall  held  up, 

With  sighs  and  smiles,  the  parting-cup, 

And  thou  didst  taste  the  blushing  wine, 

And  therefore  art  no  love  of  mine. 

Come  back  again,  and  with  thee  bring 
A lip  unstain’d  by  earthly  thing.” 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


23 


Sad  I returned.  That  night  I slept, 

And  eat  and  drank,  and  wildly  wept ; 

But  thence  three  days  and  nights  I waked — 
My  feast  untouched,  my  thirst  unslaked — 
And  again  beneath  the  wild  tree’s  shade 
I call’d  in  sighs  my  aerial  maid. 

And  farther  off  her  voice  replied — 

“ Tho’  thou  hast  neither  smiled  nor  sigh’d, 
Nor  furled  in  sleep  thy  sorrow’s  wing, 

Nor  eat  nor  drank  of  earthly  thing, 

Yet,  as  this  morning  at  the  gate 
Thy  sister  stood  all  desolate, 

And  prayed  of  thee  a parting  kiss, 

Thou,  all  unmindful  of  the  bliss 
That  warms  a purer  cheek  and  breast, 

Didst  yield  the  girl  her  fond  request. 

Come  back  again,  and  with  thee  bring 
A lip  unstain’d  by  earthly  thing.” 

I did  return,  and  with  me  brought 
The  unstain’d  lip  the  spirit  sought. 

I sat  in  sleep  beneath  that  tree — 

Sweet  sleep  that  came  on  suddenly — 

Her  warm  wild  sigh  stole  o’er  me  then, 

And  woo’d  me  to  my  thought  again  ; — 

I felt  a cheek  of  tenderest  touch 
Laid  gently  to  the  burning  blush 
That  mantled  mine  ; — I felt  young  arms 
Steal  round  and  round  me,  and  all  the  charms 


24 


THE  CELT?S  PARADISE. 


Of  a fond,  flattering,  loving  breast 
To  mine  in  murmuring  raptures  press’d. 

“From  this  fond  and  free  caress, 

Wake,  Son  of  Earth,  thy  sleep  to  bless, — 
Wake  to  the  joy  of  breathing  free — 

The  breath  of  immortality !” 

It  was  too  much — too  keen  a pleasure 
For  a mere  mortal  heart  to  measure  ! 

My  sinews  thrilled — my  breathing  went— 
My  laboring  pulse  its  throbbings  spent, 
And  my  soul  faded  into  night, 

Darkening  in  its  own  delight. 

I woke  as  men  from  doubtful  dreams 
In  the  broad  sun’s  real  beams 
Oft  waken  to  look  back  with  fright 
Upon  their  phantoms  of  the  night. 

The  life  I led,  the  days  gone  by, 

I thought  of,  dark  and  doubtingly. 

It  was  not  an  action  or  a scene 
In  which  I felt  I might  have  been — 
Rather  some  unsubstantial  play 
Of  fancy  in  her  holiday. 

A brighter  thought  came  to  my  tongue— 
A livelier  life  within  me  sprung — 

A fresher  current  of  young  blood 
Sent  to  my  heart  its  thrilling  flood, 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


25 


And  my  lightened  limbs  disdained  to  rest 
On  the  cold  earth’s  cloddy  breast. 


I woke  upon  a wild  sea-shore — - 
The  waste  was  round  the  sky  was  o’er : 
My  head  was  cradled  on  her  knee, 

And  there  she  watched  me  silently, 
Like  the  sun  shining  on  a flower 
That  all  alone  lives  thro’  its  hour 
In  some  forsaken  wilderness. 

I woke  and  woo’d  her  heart’s  caress. 
And  she  did  give  it  wild  and  free 
As  her  kiss  beneath  the  forest  tree. 

And  I felt  with  her  and  she  with  me — 
My  thoughts  were  hers,  and  mutually 
I had  her  thinkings — heart  in  heart 
And  mind  in  mind  together  blended, 
Like  streams  that  cannot  live  apart, 
But  in  one  glassy  lake  have  ended. 


And  shining  and  soft  was  her  virgin  form, 
In  full-blown  beauty  wild  and  warm. 

I know  not  if  aught  of  earthly  blood 
Mingled  with  the  magic  flood 
That  feeds  her  veins ; but  you  might  see 
A rich  vein  wandering  sportively 
Beneath  the  bright  transparent  skin, 

That  kept  its  sparkling  essence  in. 


26 


THE  CELT?S  PARADISE. 


’Twas  an  earthly  shape,  but  polish’d  too  high 
For  an  earthly  touch  or  an  earthly  eye. 

;Twas  an  earthly  shape ! What  else  could  be 
Moulded  or  made  to  rapture  me  ? 

What  other  form  could  loveliness  take 
To  bid  my  doating  eye-balls  ache, 

And  boil  my  blood,  and  fire  my  brain 
In  agonies  of  blissful  pain  ? 

Nay,  Saint,  I pass  thy  word  of  scorn — 
Thyself  hath  sung  this  very  morn 
Of  beautiful  and  blushing  things, 

With  golden  hair  and  snowy  wings — 

Fair  beyond  minstrel’s  fancyings — 

Who,  moulded  like  to  forms  of  earth 
Even  in  thy  own  heaven  have  birth, 

Tho’  basking  in  such  holy  light 

Hath  made  them  look  more  soft  and  white. 


I tell  thee,  there  she  sat  wuth  me, 

Fairer  than  earthly  woman  may  be  ; 

And  she  floated  before  my  fainting  glance. 
Like  the  shapes  of  air  that  softly  dance 
Bound  the  glorious  evening  sun, 

In  joy  that  his  daily  task  is  done. 

Her  eye  was  large,  and  soft,  and  dark, 
Floating  in  fondness  ; often  a spark 
Of  mild  and  chasten’d  light  shone  thro’; 
And  it  was  even  as  a drop  of  dew 


BOSTON  GOIAS©®  %m,im 

CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS 

THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 

Half  seen  within  a darken’d  bower, 

In  the  morning  misty  hour ; 

And  you  might  know  that  underneath 
All  of  her  that  did  look  or  breathe 
There  was  a spirit  pure  and  chaste 
As  ice  upon  the  unsunned  waste, 

Or  silver  waters  underground 

That  the  searching  day  has  never  found. 


And  she  looked  on  me,  and  I on  her — 
Each  glance  the  other’s  worshipper — 

A long,  long  look — an  endless  stream 
Of  ever-gushing  love — a beam 
Unbroken  as  the  lonely  one 
For  ever  flowing  from  the  sun. 

And  I know  not  how — for  years  come  on, 
And  mind  and  memory  half  are  gone, 
And  things  that  in  our  morning  youth 
Seem’d  strong  and  durable  as  truth 
In  age’s  twilight  fade  away 
To  shapeless  shades,  and  will  not  stay. 

I know  not  how — but  we  have  broke 
The  chains  of  that  dear  dream,  and  woke 
And  left  that  solitary  shore 
To  laugh  amid  the  billow’s  roar ! 


Yes ! swift  as  the  wild  wind  that  gives  it  it 
We  traveled  the  waste  of  the  desolate  ocean- 


27 


motion, 


28 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


And  how  proudly  I rode  on  the  back  of  the  billow, 
With  her  lip  for  my  kiss  and  her  breast  for  my  pillow! 

We  came  to  a land  where  the  light  of  the  world 
Hath  brightest  his  standard  of  summer  unfurled. 

We  touch  it — we  pass  it — we  traverse  its  scope 
Like  the  glancing  of  thought  or  the  gleamings  of  hope ! 

I have  no  memory  of  the  things 
I saw  or  met  in  that  fearful  flight — 

They  only  make  strange  visi tings 
To  my  sleeping  thoughts  in  a dream  of  night. 

Yet  half  I remember,  as  we  pass’d 
A desert  of  sand  outstripping  its  blast, 

Of  savage  shapes  and  forms  of  fear 
That  came  to  look  on  us  too  near  ; 

And  the  hungry  glaring  of  their  eyes 
Half  yielded  to  a stern  surprise 
To  see  such  rapid  travelers  there, 

Or  hear  us  hurrying  thro’  the  air. 

And  on ! The  blue  hills  backward  fly — 

Trees,  rocks,  and  the  world  and  all  glance  by ! 

And  once,  as  I gave*  a farewell  look 
To  the  old  sun  I had  forsook, 

He  seem’d  as  if  rushing  down  the  sky 
To  drink  the  depths  of  the  ocean  dry, 

And  finish  his  long  and  lonely  reign, 

And  never  light  up  the  world  again. 


THE  CELT  S PARADISE. 


29 


On,  on  ! And  we  came  to  the  last  cold  shore 
That  aged  sun  is  shining  o’er. 

It  was  a scene  of  feature  wild — 

Its  rocks  in  random  ruin  piled — • 

And  towers  of  ice  and  hills  of  snow, 

Mocking  the  wither’d  waste  below. 

Yet  there,  all  beautiful  and  bright, 

The  sun  was  shedding  his  chasten’d  light. 

It  seem’d  as  if  faithless  trees  and  flowers, 

That  vary  with  the  varying  hours, 

And  eyes  and  cheeks  that  change  at  will, 

And  worldly  hearts,  more  fickle  still, 

Had  tired  him  with  their  dull  deceit, 

And  he  no  more  would  lend  them  heat, 

Or  light,  or  life — but  thither  came 
To  shine  on  things  that,  cold  and  tame, 

And  shapeless,  and  strange  as  they  might  be, 
Smiled  always  in  white  constancy. 

And  there,  away  from  house  and  tower, 

He  spent  his  silent  noon-tide  hour 
All  sportively  : his  soft  beam  fell 
On  many  a glancing  icicle, 

And  kindled  up  each  crystal  height 
With  rainbow  hue  and  chequer’d  light. 

And  I thought  he  wished  no  other  eye 
To  gladden  at  a scene  so  high, 

But  all  in  solitude  smiled  to  see 
The  play  of  his  own  pleasantry. 


30 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


On,  on ! That  spangling  scene  is  pass’d. 
And  we  have  left  the  world  at  last ! 

I cannot  tell  you  if  we  went 
Upward  or  down — thro’  firmament, 

Or  wind  or  water — air  or  light ; 

It  was  even  as  a vision  of  night, 

When  youthful  hearts  that  pant  for  heaven 
Dream  of  some  rich  and  rosy  even, 

Upon  whose  perfumed  breeze  they  rise, 

Like  the  mist  of  the  hill  in  summer  skies. 

I saw  not,  touch’d  not  aught  but  her 
Who  was  my  bosom’s  comforter 
In  that  rash  flight.  Enough  for  me 
To  feel  her  clasp  me  tenderly, 

And  with  her  kisses  call  from  death 
The  fluttering^  of  my  failing  breath. 

Oh  then  ! in  what  a keen  delight 
We  shot  upon  our  airy  flight — 

Like  the  lone  comet,  calm  and  fair, 

Cleaving  the  silent  realms  of  the  air  ! 

I said  I knew  not  aught  was  there — 

Nor  saw  a shape,  nor  heard  a sound 
In  all  the  voiceless  space  around — 

Yet  have  I thought — a half-dreamt  thought — 
That  far  and  doubtingly  I caught, 

While  in  our  rush  of  silence  hurled, 

A parting  glance  of  my  native  world. 


THE  CELT  S PARADISE. 


31 


The  stars  were  up,  and,  weak  and  small, 

They  twinkled  round  a darken’d  ball ; 

I strove  to  fix  them  on  my  sight, 

And,  as  I looked,  their  points  of  light 
Lengthen’d  to  lines,  that  quick  and  slight 
Traversed  each  other,  and  entwined 
Like  a maiden’s  tresses  in  the  wind — • 

And  still  I look,  and  still  they  glance, 

And  mingle  in  their  misty  dance — 

And  faint  and  fainter,  and  now  they  fly — 

And  now  they  fail,  and  now  they  die — 

And  they  and  the  spot  they  woke  to  light 
Have  melted  from  my  swimming  sight ! 

One  earthly  sigh  I gave  to  part 

From  the  world  that  warmed  my  youthful  heart. 


And  on,  and  on  ! — But  how  or  where  ? 

I felt  no  motion  in  the  air, 

And  I think  no  breeze  was  busy  there- 

But  I was  swathed  as  in  a mist 

That  the  morning  sunbeam  has  not  kiss’d — 

And  I was  hurled  as  in  a wind 

That  all  but  leaves  a thought  behind. 

On,  on  ! And  have  we  not  touch’d  at  last 
Some  gentle  substance  as  we  pass’d  ? 

I thought  our  flight  less  fearful  now. 

And  I looked  upon  my  Spirit’s  brow 


32 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


To  read  its  smile.  Oil  well  I knew 
My  own  heart’s  thought  reflected  true  ! 
And  smoother  still  we  glide  along — 
Smooth  as  the  gushing  flow  of  song. 
The  velvet  sod  we  press  at  last — 

The  gathered  mist  aside  is  cast — 

And  arm  in  arm,  and  hand  in  hand, 

We  wander  thro’  her  own  bright  land! 


THIRD  DUAN. 


THE  SAINT. 

Ossian,  enough  of  this  dotard  theme, 
Lit  up  at  the  meteor-blaze  of  a dream, 
Wanton  and  vain  as  ever  was  fann’d 
By  the  deadly  zeal  of  the  evil  one’s  hand. 


OSSIAN. 

Man  of  prayers,  and  dost  thou  dare 
To  say  to  Ossian  he  was  not  there  ? 


THE  SAINT. 

I tell  thee,  Ossian,  it  was  a vain 
And  wicked  vision  of  thy  brain, 

Coming  in  sleep  from  thoughts  of  sin, 
That  wantoned  thy  waking  soul  within  ; 
And  dark  and  aged  as  thou  art, 

And  withered  as  is  thy  wayward  heart, 


34 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


Fitter  were  it,  old  man,  for  tliee 
To  pray  on  bare  and  bended  knee, 

And  tell  thy  blessed  rosary, 

Than  here  upon  this  blasted  hill 
To  sing  thy  song  of  weakness  still. 

Arise  and  walk ! The  sloping  sun 
Hath  half  his  daily  business  done, 

And  we  are  warned  of  penance  unsped, 
And  psalms  unsung,  and  prayers  unread. 


OSSIAN. 

Away ! and  leave  me  to  my  wrath  ; 

No  other  vengeance  Ossian  hath 
For  all  the  slanders  of  thy  tongue, 

And  the  tears  of  shame  thy  words  have  rung 
From  his  old  heart.  Away — away ! 

And  were  it  but  an  earlier  day, 

That  word,  false  Saint,  thou  durst  not  say ! 
Oh,  Osgur  ! my  heart’s  darling  son, 

Thy  father’s  deeds  are  all  undone ! 

He  is  in  darkness,  and  must  hear 
The  word  of  shame  come  on  his  ear, 

And  he  may  not  raise  a sword  or  spear ! 

The  last  of  all  the  Fenian  race 
Sits  on  his  own  hill  in  disgrace  ! 

But  were  he  here,  or  were  there  one 
Of  all  my  heroes  that  are  gone, 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


35 


Thou  lying  slanderer  of  the  brave, 

The  sod  thon  stand’st  on  were  thy  grave ! 
And  did’st  thou,  darest  thou  talk  to  me 
Of  speaking — thinking  falsity  ? 

And  speak  I of  Osgur  ? Man  of  prayers, 

I care  not  for  these  old  white  hairs. 

Roll  off  the  cloud  that  closes  o’er  me — 

Let  me  but  see  thee  stand  before  me — 
Break  this  staff,  and  in  my  hand 
Let  me  feel  my  father’s  brand — 

Then  might’st  thou  wish  thy  prayers  read, 
Thy  shriving  o’er,  and  thy  penance  sped  ! 


THE  SAINT. 

A wayward  penitent  to  me, 

I fear  me,  Ossian,  thou  wilt  be. 

I said  not,  I wished  not  to  say 
A word  to  steal  thy  fame  away. 

I must  believe  that  for  thy  race 
There  is  but  one  pure  dwelling-place — 
I must  believe  that  soul  or  spirit 
No  sense  of  mortal  touch  inherit — 
And  this  I must,  if  I have  faith 
In  Him  who  died  to  conquer  death, 
And  hope,  with  Him,  in  light  to  be, 

A measureless  eternity. 

Thou  hast  thy  creed,  and  I have  mine  ; 
And  if  I will  not  bow  to  thine, 


36 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


How  do  I err  to  them  or  thee 
But  as  thyself  hath  erred  to  me  ? 

Ossian,  the  Fenii’s  fame  is  high, 

Their  deeds  are  sung,  and  can  never  die  ; 
Strong  were  they  on  their  hills  of  power, 

And  hapjoy  was  their  peaceful  hour. 

They  have  failed  on  earth  as  the  sun  goes  down 
Over  Slieve  Gullian’s  craggy  crown, 

When  he  leaves  the  world  he  smiled  upon, 
Warm  with  the  light  of  his  glories  gone. 

OSSIAN. 

Free  be  thy  faith  ; and  I rejoice 
To  hear  in  peace  thy  harmless  voice. 

Well  hast  thou  spoken.  Man  of  age  ! 

Our  whole  race  was  one  spreading  page 
Of  truth  and  whiteness — free  from  stains 
As  the  bounding  blood  within  their  veins. 

Nay,  rest  we  here.  ?Tis  very  long 
Since  Ossian  gave  his  soul  to  song. 

I know  the  sun  hath  soared  his  fling, 

Now  pointing  to  earth  his  golden  wing ; 

Yet,  if  thou  wilt  but  list  my  lay, 

A double  penance  will  I say 
For  this  upon  my  shriving  day. 

A dream  it  was  not.  Well  I know 
How  short  a way  our  visions  go, 


THE  CELT  S PARADISE. 


37 


To  give  us  lialf  the  living  bliss, 
I quaffed  upon  her  virgin  kiss ! 


And  now  we  are  in  her  land  of  love, 

With  a light  below  and  a sky  above, 

And  such  a breathing  life  around, 

And  such  a mingling  of  soft  sound, 

I have  no  words  to  tell  the  thought 
With  which  my  fainting  soul  is  fraught ! 

And  if  I had,  what  pulse  could  beat — 

What  bright’ning  brow  could  flush  with  heat, 
And  give  the  smile  to  the  bard  so  dear, 

And  only  age  and  coldness  here  ? 

Ask  me  if  the  flowers  were  fair — 

Ask  me  if  the  sighing  air 

Was  soft  and  pleasant — I will  say 

Thou  think’st  but  of  an  earthly  day, 

And  earthly  flowers,  and  air,  and  skies, 

And  makest  with  them  my  Paradise. 


But  seek  not  on  cold  and  earthly  things 
To  fetter  thy  imaginings, 

If  thou  would’st  wish  one  glimpse  to  win 
Of  that  pure  heaven  I have  been  in. 

Lie  on  the  green  hill’s  sunny  side, 

And  listen  to  the  dashing  tide — 

Let  the  flowers  be  blushing  nigh  thee, 
And  lay  thy  harp  in  slumbers  by  thee, 


38 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


Save  that,  now  and  then,  thy  finger 
On  some  small  chord  will  love  to  linger, 

Which,  chance  and  fancy  half  inspiring, 

Thy  softened  soul  is  gently  firing — 

Then,  while  the  evening-beam  blushes  red. 

And  the  high  grass  is  waving  o’er  thy  head, 
And  thine  eyes  are  half  closed  in  the  rosy  light, 
And  thy  thoughts  within  are  sparkling  bright — 
Then  may’st  thou  image  some  floating  scene 
Like  that  lovely  land  where  I have  been ! 

Yet  it  wanted  not  its  own  wild  hill, 

The  spreading  tree,  and  the  silver  rill — 

The  silent  lake,  the  stretching  shore, 

And  the  hoarseness  of  the  torrent’s  roar — 
Scenes  which  the  true  bard  loves  to  see, 
Whether  on  earth  or  in  heaven  he  be. 

And  ever  its  gentle  rivers  glided 
Tliro’  fields  of  flowers,  which  they  divided 
As  the  minstrel-measure  parts  in  song 
The  flowers  his  fancy  strays  among. 

And  its  small  flowers  were  always  fair, 

And  soft  to  the  touch  as  summer  air ; 

Their  only  business  was  to  live, 

And  to  the  breeze  their  perfumes  give, 

And  in  return  the  breezes  crept 
Into  their  bosoms  while  they  slept, 

And  left  them  all  the  sweets  they  found 
In  their  flight  the  world  around. 


THE  CELT?S  PARADISE. 


39 


I know  not  whence  the  day-beam  came, 
But  it  was  ever  and  ever  the  same — 

A living  light  that  streamed  for  ever 
On  hill  and  mountain,  lake  and  river  : 
Without  a burst,  without  a shade, 

One  mild  and  virgin  day  it  made — 

In  which  on  sultry  breeze  could  blast, 

Nor  cloud  nor  tempest  overcast, 

Nor  sullen  mist  its  damp  distill, 

Nor  wild  wind  rave,  nor  winter  chill. 


I say  not  that  the  young  eyes  there 
Made  that  modest  light  less  fair. 

It  might  be  that  one  roving  ray 
First  called  a love-look  into  day, 

And  from  two  starry  eyes  drew  forth 
A freshened  glow  and  added  worth — 

And  these  eyes  looked  on  other  eyes, 

And  kindled  up  new  brilliances — 

And  other  eyes  still  woke  each  other, 

And  every  soft  beam  had  a brother, 

’Till,  mingling  quick  and  flashing  wide, 

The  gathered  radiance  gave  its  tide — 

And  blushing  cheeks,  and  blushing  flowers 
Kichly  mellowed  its  dazzling  powers, 

And  lake  and  river,  air  and  sky, 

For  ever  made  it  multiply. 


40 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


I think  such  might  be  the  mingled  ray 
That  there  gave  out  its  pleasant  day, 

For  it  seemed  to  glitter  a little  less 
When  my  loved  one  slept  in  gentleness  : 

And  the  only  faint  fading  of  that  light, 

Which  gave  but  the  calmness  of  earthly  night, 
Was  when  a thousand  eyes  were  sleeping 
Unearthly  sleep,  that  had  been  keeping 
The  day  so  fresh  and  fair  about  them, 

It  could  not  be  day  or  light  without  them. 

There  was  a voice  throughout  the  air 
That  spoke  of  soul  and  spirit  there — 

And  ever  as  you  breathed  its  sigh, 

I may  not  name  the  thinkings  high 
That  o’er  your  mind  in  freshness  stole, 

And  wildly  woke  the  startled  soul. 

And  it  made  minstrelsy,  and  spoke 
Language  that  bards  all  vainly  invoke 
When  they  would  tell  of  words  half  broken, 
With  the  river- spirit  spoken, 

Or  catch  from  the  careering  breeze 
Its  darkly-whispered  mysteries. 

And  all  was  music — air  and  sky 
And  water — and  the  harmony 
Of  what  was  spoken — and  the  song 
Of  shining  birds,  that  in  a throng 
Their  distant  warblings  would  prolong. 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


41 


Then  it  was  most  pleasant  to  see 
The  innocent  creatures  there  that  be, 

Sitting  or  walking  joyously 

In  their  bower  or  thro’  their  shade — 

Bard  and  warrior,  youth  and  maid, 

Each  happy  as  he  wished  to  be 
In  all  the  range  of  liberty. 

Young  eyes  were  ever  glancing  round — 

Eyes  that  never  wept  or  frowned — 

And  the  laugh  of  those  happy  hearts  was  like 
Strains  that  enraptured  minstrels  strike, 

In  one  full  and  bursting  measure, 

When  they  give  their  souls  to  sound  and  pleasure. 


All  were  happy — but  some  felt 
A holier  joy,  and  others  dwelt 
In  higher  glory.  I saw  one 
Who,  for  the  good  deeds  he  had  done 
On  earth,  was  here  a worshipped  king, 
Triumphant  o’er  all  suffering. 

On  the  utmost  edge  of  his  own  shore, 

One  foot  amid  the  breaker’s  roar, 

Another  on  the  rocky  strand, 

He  met  the  invading  foe — his  hand 
Grasp’d  its  good  sword.  He  was  alone, 
And  they  were  thousands  ; and  when  flown 
His  strength  at  last,  he  could  but  throw 
Between  his  country  and  the  foe 


42 


THE  CELT?S  PARADISE. 


His  heart,  and  thro’  it  bid  them  smite 
At  her’s. 

He  fell ; but  in  the  light 
Of  Paradise  the  hero’s  deed 
Found  fittest  eulogy  and  meed  ; 

The  gaping  death-gash  on  his  side 
"Was  turned  to  glory — far  and  wide 
As  a bright  star  it  beamed — and  he 
Walked  on  in  immortality, 

Worshipped  and  wondered  at — the  brave, 

Unenvious  to  his  virtue,  gave 
Honor  and  fame,  and  praise — the  old, 

Blessed  him  as  he  walked  by,  and  told 
His  name  in  reverence — beauty’s  tongue, 

Her  laugh  of  love,  and  her  soft  song 
Ever  at  his  approach  were  hushed 
Unconsciously — and  thousands  rushed, 

Forgetful  of  themselves,  to  gaze 
And  give  in  looking  their  heart’s  praise 
To  him,  of  heroes  the  highest  and  best, 

Whose  death-wound  was  turned  to  a star  on  his  breast ! 

With  him  walked  one  in  converse  high, 

Of  lesser  shape,  but  whose  quick  eye 
Sent  inspiration  round — the  rush 
Of  bright  thoughts  in  a dazzling  blush 
Spread  o’er  his  face.  Music  and  song 
At  his  birth  informed  his  tongue 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


43 


And  fired  his  soul ; and  with  them  came 
The  throb  for  freedom  ; but  the  name 
Of  his  own  land  had  passed  away, 

And,  fettered,  amid  her  waves  she  lay, 

Like  a strong  man  on  his  hill.  The  bard 
In  all  her  breezes  only  heard 
The  sigh  of  her  past  fame.  No  strain 
Rose  o’er  her  desolated  plain 
To  mourn  her  glories  gone,  or  call 
The  blush  of  shame  for  her  early  fall 
Up  to  her  cold  destroyer’s  cheek, 

Or  on  his  heart  in  thunders  break. 

But  the  bard  caught  up  his  harp,  and  woke 
His  Countky’s  Song  ! And  as  it  broke 
Forth  in  its  pride,  unmoved  he  met 
From  despot  tongues  their  chide  or  threat — 
The  lordly  frown  or  luring  smile 
That  strove  to  silence,  or  beguile 
To  silence,  a song  so  high  and  bold, 

So  true  and  fearless — for  it  told 
Her  tale  in  every  strain  ! The  wrong 
And  outrage  she  had  suffered  long 
Went  forth  among  the  nations,  ’till 
The  eyes  of  men  began  to  fill 
With  sorrow  for  her  sorrows ; and 
Even  in  that  cold  and  careless  land 
That  wrought  her  woe,  one  manly  sigh 
Was  heard  at  last  in  sympathy 


44 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


With  all  her  suffering  ; and  for  this 
Thro’  our  world  of  light  and  bliss 
He  walked  immortal — side  by  side 
With  him,  the  hero,  who  had  died 
The  highest  death  a hero  can  die — 

Tor  his  native  land  and  her  liberty ! 

And  equal  reverence  to  the  bard 
All  creatures  gave ; and  his  reward 
Was  equal  glory  ; a blessed  song 
Went  with  them  as  they  walked  along ; 

It  was  over  and  round  them  on  their  way, 
And  ever  it  said  thro’  the  cloudless  day — 

“ Joy  to  the  hero  who  dared  and  died 
For  his  country’s  honor,  and  fame,  and  pride  ; 
And  joy  to  the  bard  whose  song  brought  fame 
And  pride  to  his  fallen  country’s  name  !” 


And  I saw  such  scenes  of  joy  and  love 
In  Paradise,  that  I could  rove 
Its  holy  bowers  for  ever,  and  be 
For  ever  blessed  such  joy  to  see. 


I saw  an  old  man  sitting  alone  : 

On  earth  he  left  a darling  one, 

And  for  her  coming  waited  here  : 

Without,  her  Paradise  was  not  dear ! 

In  pain  and  sickness,  want  and  woe, 

She  had  soothed  or  shared  his  bosom’s  throe ; 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


45 


He  had  no  pillow  but  her  breast. 

No  song  but  her’s  to  sing  him  to  rest, 
No  tear  but  her’s  to  meet  his  grief, 

No  smile  but  her’s  to  beam  relief, 

No  hand  but  her’s  to  bring  him  food — 
She  was  his  only  earthly  good ! 


Her  youth  and  loveliness  she  forgot : 

To  shield  his  years,  and  share  his  lot, 

The  red  rose  withered  on  her  cheek 
Uncared  for.  She  could  only  seek 
Her  father’s  heart  by  every  wile 
And  every  care  ; and  if  a smile 
Dawned  o’er  his  languid  brow,  to  her 
’Twas  a more  blessed  comforter 
Than  morning’s  mildest  promise  when 
It  smiles  on  hopeless,  sea-wrecked  men. 

Oft  as  she  watched  his  fitful  sleep, 

And  wished,  and  longed,  but  feared  to  weep, 
The  old  man  in  his  dreams  would  press 
Her  hand.  She  would  feel  his  caress, 

And  his  fond  and  murmured  blessing  hear 
With  bounding  heart  and  raptured  ear, 

And  every  nerve  upon  the  spring 
To  pay  his  love  with  answering  cling — 

But  fear  to  break  his  sleep  would  check 
Her  natural  instinct.  Bound  his  neck 


46 


THE  CELT  S PARADISE. 


Her  innocent  arms  she  then  would  steal, 
That  he  their  pressure  might  not  feel, 
And  to  his  wan  and  wasted  brow 
Her  lovely  head  in  reverence  bow, 

And  breathe  upon  it  her  meek  kiss 
Of  duteous  love  and  holy  bliss. 


Alas  ! in  earlier,  happier  hours, 

Hope  had  entwined  some  blushing  flowers 
For  her  young  heart ; yes,  there  was  one 
She  loved,  and  could  have  doted  on 
Thro’  weal  and  woe.  Fain  would  he  take 
Her  heart  to  his  to  still  its  ache ; 

And  she  that  true  heart  would  have  given. 
If  sorrow  for  herself  had  riven 
Its  tender  core.  But  now  she  said 
She  would  watch  by  her  father’s  bed 
In  his  old  age,  and  have  no  thought 
But  for  his  good.  And  well  she  wrought 
Her  blessed  task,  until  at  last 
The  old  man’s  struggling  spirit  passed, 
And  her  young  cheek  was  worn  and  wan 
As  his  from  which  the  life  had  gone ! 


She  sought  him  soon.  Even  as  I spoke 
With  him,  beneath  his  spreading  oak, 

In  solitude,  that  holy  maid 

Came  on  to  meet  him.  She  was  arrayed 


tiie  celt’s  paradise. 


4 


Iii  whitest  glory ; and  as  a beam 
Of  moonlight,  or  a morning  dream 
Dreamt  by  a saint,  she  came.  He  saw 
And  knew  her  coming.  Love  and  awe, 
Rapture  and  thankfulness,  were  in  his  look, 
And  up  he  rose  ; and  first  he  took 
Her  innocent  hand,  and  fixed  his  eye 
Ecstatic  on  her,  and  then  nigh 
And  nigher  to  his  old  heart  he  drew 
Its  only  darling ! — And  they  grew 
Together  in  a long  caress 
Of  wordless  love  and  happiness. 


I met  some  blissful  children  playing 
Thro’  the  fair  fields ; and  they  were  straying 
Wherever  their  innocent  fancy  sent 
A wish  before  them.  But  I bent 
My  eye  on  one,  a glorious  boy, 

Who  in  this  life  had  been  the  joy 
Of  a widowed  mother — no  second  child 
She  had ; and  when  he  laughed  or  smiled, 
Her  eyes  in  happy  tears  would  swim, 

And  her  very  heart  laugh  out  with  him. 


They  walked  together  : it  was  o’er 
A craggy,  steep,  and  sea-washed  shore. 
The  boy  ran  on  to  snatch  a flower 
From  the  rock’s  edge.  Alas ! no  power 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


The  wretched  mother  had  to  say, 
Or  shriek  her  fear.  Away,  away — 
Down,  down  he  fell ! 


A night  and  day. 
Insensible  of  life,  she  lay, 

And  then  her  shuddering  soul  had  rest. 

And  here  she  came  among  the  blessed 
To  meet  her  loved  one.  As  she  came. 
Instinctively  she  named  his  name 
In  tenderest  accents.  The  boy  turned 
And  knew  his  mother ! His  cheek  burned 
With  rosier  brightness.  From  among 
His  wondering  playmates  up  he  sprung, 

And  round  her  neck  like  ivy  clung ! 

And  she,  in  the  embrace  she  gave, 

Seemed  as  for  ever  she  would  save 
Her  child  from  harm,  and  make  him  one 
With  her  own  essence.  “ My  son  ! my  son . 
She  said,  “ live  here  upon  my  heart ! 

Now  wTe  shall  never,  never  part.” 

A father  walked  in  silent  ways 
With  his  two  children.  Full  ripe  days 
Of  manhood  he  had  known  ; and  they, 

A boy  and  girl,  died  in  the  May 
Of  earthly  life,  and  took  their  way 
To  him  in  Paradise.  As  they  walked. 

The  father  to  his  children  talked 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


49 


Of  their  good  mother,  who  on  earth 
Still  lived,  and  of  a coming  birth 
Which  would  give  them,  in  after  years, 
Another  playmate. 


In  her  tears 

On  earth  the  widow  dwelt.  She  knew, 
And  anguish  on  that  knowledge  grew, 
That  when  her  husband  died,  he  left 
An  unborn  orphan  with  her.  "Heft 
In  him  of  all  that  could  give  life 
To  life  itself,  now  it  was  strife 
To  breathe  or  walk  the  earth.  The  child 
She  carried,  if  it  ever  smiled 
In  this  cold  world,  would  be  forlorn 
As  ever  was  infant-orphan  born  ; 

For  she  was  hopeless,  helpless,  low, 

And  she  only  wished  to  die,  and  go 
Where  he  had  gone,  whose  early  heart 
Was  hers  ; whose  life  in  every  part, 

Since  their  first  union,  had  been  spent 
In  chastened  love  and  meek  content 
For  her  and  with  her. 


Her  hour  came  on. 
And  she  was  made  mother  of  a son. 

Into  her  feeble  arms  she  took 
Her  feebler  infant.  One  fond  look, 

One  mother’s  kiss,  she  gave,  then  shook 


50 


THE  CELT  S PARADISE. 


Convulsively,  and  died — and  deatli 
Came  on  her  babe  in  the  same  breath. 

I saw  the  happy,  happy  greeting 
Of  this  fond  family  at  their  meeting. 
With  his  children  hand  in  hand. 

By  a lone  lake’s  spreading  strand 
The  father  walked.  To  its  far  shore 
The  fair  girl  looked  and  pointed.  More 
She  could  not  say,  but  turned  and  ran 
To  meet  her  mother.  Then  began 
A scene  of  Paradise ! The  boy 
Followed  his  sister,  in  such  joy 
As  youth  and  natural  love,  refined 
And  made  immortal,  to  his  mind 
Might  bring,  impulsive. 


With  freshened  brow, 
The  mother  moved  majestic  now ; 

And  her  young  infant  to  her  breast 
So  fondly,  yet  so  gently,  pressed ; 

Her  arms  crossed  o’er  it  like  a braid 
Of  white  flowers  on  a lambkin.  Led 
By  equal  love,  she  rushed  to  meet 
Her  happy  children  ; and  quick  feet 
Soon  find  each  other.  The  boy  clung 
First  to  his  mother’s  breast,  and  hung 
As  a garland  there ; the  girl  had  ta’en, 

To  kiss  it  o’er  and  o’er  again, 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


51 


The  infant  to  herself  ; and  when 
Her  brother  gave  his  welcome,  then 
He  took  her  lovely  load,  that  she 
Might  also,  at  full  liberty, 

Go  to  her  mother’s  arms.  Meanwhile 
The  father,  with  a fond,  fond  smile 
Shining  o’er  all  his  face,  came  on 
At  gentle  speed.  His  glance  hath  gone 
Before  him  with  its  welcome.  Her’s 
Hath  met  it.  Oh  the  thrill  that  stirs 
In  two  such  hearts  when  two  such  eyes 
Meet  once  again  in  Paradise ! 

She  shrieked  her  joy ; and  to  the  child 
Yet  clinging  to  her  gave  a wild 
And  hasty  kiss ; and  being  free 
From  that  embrace,  all  eagerly 
Out  of  the  young  boy’s  arms  she  took 
Her  rosy  infant,  and  with  a look 
I felt  and  feel,  but  may  not  speak, 

Ban  forward  and  held  forth  its  cheek 
To  tempt  its  father’s  kiss ; and  then 
She  gave  it  to  the  boy  again. 

And  the  fond  wife  and  husband  pressed 
Each  other  to  each  other’s  breast 
In  such  chaste  rapture  as  is  known 
In  bowers  of  blessedness  alone! 

On  his  hill  old  Comhal  dwelt. 

I saw  him,  and  in  awe  I knelt. 


THE  CELT?S  PARADISE. 


He  raised  me  with  his  aged  hand, 
And  asked  of  his  own  lovely  land, 
And  spoke  of  Finn  ; and  when  I told 
The  fields  of  fight  of  that  hero  bold, 
He  wept  in  joy  for  the  fame  he  won, 
And  often  blessed  his  only  son. 


And  there  he  dwelt  upon  his  hill, 

And  thought  of  his  deeds  of  danger  still, 
Or,  mounted  on  his  cloudy  steed, 

Hunted  the  stag  in  pleasant  speed. 
Sometimes  my  gentle  love  and  I 
Such  wild  unearthly  sport  would  try ; 
And  it  was  ecstacy  to  chase, 

That  brown  stag  in  his  mimic  race ! 

My  horse  was  of  the  darkened  air, 

My  dogs  were  made  of  the  breezes  there, 
And  the  bounding  stag  was  born  of  light 
Made  visible  like  the  rainbow  bright ! 


And  together  we  sat  in  her  house  of  flowers, 
And  laughed  at  the  careering  hours. 

Silence  was  round  us,  except  the  sigh 
Of  the  love-sick  breezes  floating  by, 

Or  the  small  sweet  song  of  the  beautiful  birds 
That,  like  us,  lived  on  loving.  Words 
We  wanted  not — our  hearts  and  eyes 
Shone  through  each  other — thoughts  and  sighs 


THE  CELT  S PARADISE. 


Were  mutual — and  for  our  nuptial  bed 
The  tenderest  flowers  tlieir  softness  shed, 
And  burned  in  blushes  ripe  and  red, 

Such  lovely  limbs  as  her’s  to  press 
In  all  their  modest  nakedness. 

Our’s  was  not  earthly  love.  To  sit 
A little  parted  and  opposite, 

And  gently  hold  each  other’s  hand, 

While  the  vassal-breeze  our  sighings  fanned 
Backward  and  forward — and  to  look 
Long  in  each  other’s  eyes,  that  took 
Our  thinkings  to  the  heart,  and  then 
Gave  them  out  in  light  again  ; 

Thus  to  be,  without  motion  or  stir, 

Each  the  other’s  idolater, 

Alone,  and  long,  and  wordless,  till 
Our  eyes  began  with  tears  to  fill, 

Our  frames  with  faintness,  and  our  sighs 
With  choaked  and  broken  ecstacies  ; 

And  we  at  last  sunk  gently — folded 
In  holy  fondness — thus  to  be, 

And  thus  to  feel ! — No  creature  moulded 
In  feelings  of  mere  mortality 
May  ever  think  or  ever  bring 
Such  bliss  to  his  imagining. 

Or  we  wandered  among  shining  streams, 
That,  like  the  bard’s  delicious  dreams, 


54 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


Ever  flow  thro’  beds  of  flowers, 

And  golden  vales,  and  blushing  bowers. 

And  all  in  playfulness  we  gaze 
With  sportive  and  well  feigned  amaze 
On  the  water — and  start  and  blush 
To  see  ourselves  there  ; and  we  rush 
And  plunge  together,  as  if  to  save 
Each  other  from  that  innocent  wave  ; 

Then  with  it  go  and  glide  along 
In  echoing  laughter,  mirth,  and  song, 

Or  alone  we  sat  by  the  foamy  fountain, 

In  the  solitude  of  the  silent  mountain, 

And  I plucked  a water-flower  from  its  flow, 

And  wreathed  it  with  leaves  on  the  mountain  that 
grow. 

And  when  on  her  head  it  was  a crown, 

At  her  feet  I knelt  me  down, 

And  called  her  the  lady  and  the  queen 
Of  that  wild  and  desolate  scene. 

Or  often — for  our  pure  nature  gave 
That  triumph  over  the  gloomy  grave — 

Often  our  spirits  winged  away, 

Disembodied  through  the  day, 

And  into  aught  they  would  possess, 

Breathed  themselves  in  gentleness ; 

And  so  became  the  breeze  or  dew, 

Or  shrub  or  flower  of  any  hue. 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


55 

Then  sometimes  my  love  was  the  tall  young  tree 
That  grows  on  the  mountain  lonelily, 

And  I was  the  wooing  eglantine, 

Around  her  slender  shape  to  twine, 

And  climb  till  I kissed  the  topmost  bough 
That  blossomed  on  her  fragrant  brow. 

Or  she  was  the  softly  opening  flower, 

Among  a thousand  in  her  bower, 

And  I was  the  bee  that  passed  all  by, 

Till  I saw  my  own  flower  blushing  nigh, 

And  then  in  her  bleeding  bosom  I lay, 

And  sipped  its  sweets,  and  flew  away. 

Or  still  she  was  that  rose,  and  I 
Came  down  as  a soft  wind  from  the  sky, 

And  sadly  I sighed  thro’  fields  and  bowers, 

Till  I found  at  last  my  flower  of  flowers, 

And  then  beneath  her  folds  I crept, 

And  there  in  perfumed  sweetness  slept. 

Or  a crystal  drop  was  on  her  leaf, 

And  I playfully  called  it  the  tear  of  grief, 

And  then  I was  the  loving  light 
To  kiss  away  its  essence  bright ! 


Or  she  kept  her  own  immortal  form, 
And  I came  as  the  breezes  wild  and  warm 
Of  which  she  breathed.  I was  a sigh 
Within  her  heart,  alternately 


56 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


Coming  and  going.  Or  as  she  lay 
Reclining,  I stole  in  amorous  play, 

And  fluttered  all  over  her  gentle  frame, 
As  if  to  fan  its  virgin  flame ! 


FOURTH  DUAN. 


And  yet  beneath  that  happy  sky 
Was  heard  one  ever-during  sigh  ; 

One  heart  of  sadness  there  was  known, 
One  voice  of  sorrow  wept  alone, 

And  o’er  that  Paradise  it  would  break, 
Like  a single  tear  on  a sunny  cheek. 

And  it  named  a name  m all  its  weeping 
The  sighing  heart  was  sick  with  keeping ; 
It  named  a name  whose  very  sound, 

On  such  a lip,  in  such  holy  ground, 
Proved  all  enough  that  name  to  sever 
From  it  and  Paradise  for  ever. 

Minona ! The  sad  voice  was  thine, 

And  the  oft-whispered  name  was  mine. 

Silent  I sat  in  my  Spirit’s  bower  ; 

It  was  her  gentle  slumbering  hour  ; 

Her  head  was  cradled  on  my  breast, 

And  she  had  sighed  herself  to  rest  : 


58 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


And  all  around,  the  clustering  trees, 

Had  closed  on  love’s  long  mysteries, 

Making  a modest  twilight,  such 
As  love  itself  deemed  not  too  much. 

I heard  amongst  the  bushes  round 
A sobbing  sigh,  a moaning  sound — 

And  then  I saw  blue  weeping  eyes 
Gaze  on  me  in  my  mute  surprise — 

And  they  streamed  thro’  the  dark  bower’s  leafy  shroud 
Like  azure  thro’  a thunder  cloud. 


A feeble  recollection  came 
Of  looks  like  these  and  eyes  the  same — 
And  more  intense  my  gazings  grew ; 

But  the  young  eyes  faded  from  my  view, 
And  I only  heard  a whispering  song 
Its  mournful  music  thus  prolong. 


My  life  on  earth  was  a long,  long  sigh 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  of  hopes  and  fears  ; 
My  life  on  earth  was  a long,  long  shower 
Of  silent  tears,  of  silent  tears ; 

And  the  sudden  smile  that  sometimes  came 
O’er  all  my  woe,  o’er  all  my  woe, 

"Was  the  tempest-flash  that  breaks  upon 
The  void  below,  the  void  below 


THE  CELTS  PARADISE. 


59 


I could  not  live  on  earth  to  love, 

And  love  in  vain,  and  love  in  vain, 

And  I died  to  seek  some  other  land, 

To  soothe  my  pain,  to  soothe  my  pain. 

The  flowers  were  bright,  the  sky  was  fair, 
Morn  and  even,  morn  and  even, 

But  Ossian  was  on  earth  behind, 

And  it  was  not  heaven,  it  was  not  heaven. 

I often  wept  and  wished  him  dead, 

And  here  with  me,  and  here  with  me  ; 

He  might  forget  his  greatness  then, 

And  kinder  be,  and  kinder  be. 

He  came  at  last,  but  not  alone, 

My  wish  to  bless,  my  wish  to  bless ; 

Another  heart  has  made  for  him 
His  happiness,  his  happiness. 

I wish  I was  on  earth  again, 

In  rougher  skies,  in  rougher  skies  ; 

Their  tears  and  darkness  would  be  like 
My  agonies,  my  agonies. 

Oh ! it  is  comfortless  to  live 

In  lonely  sighs,  in  lonely  sighs — 

The  only  weeping  thing  that  walks 
Thro’  Paradise,  thro’  Paradise. 


60 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


The  sighing  song  has  ceased  around, 
So  gentle  in  its  whispering  sound, 

On  her  soft  ear  who  yet  is  sleeping, 

It  came  unheard  ; but  sobs  and  weeping 
Yet  linger  round  me,  and  I listened 
Till  the  trembling  tear  of  pity  glistened— 

“Who  art  thou,  mourner  all  alone? 
And  how  was  Ossian  loved  or  known  ?’ 

“When  happier  eyes  have  holy  rest, 
And  every  heart  but  mine  is  blessed, 

Oh  meet  me  in  my  silent  vale, 

And  listen  to  my  weeping  tale. 

Ossian,  I hope  not  for  thy  kiss, — 

But,  give  thy  tear — it  would  be  bliss 
I never  had  to  see  thee  weep, 

And  hear  thee  wish  my  woes  asleep.” 

I met  her  in  her  silent  vale, 

And  listened  to  her  weeping  tale. 

I listened — we  were  there  alone — 

In  sorrow ; and  I looked  upon 
A face  and  form  whose  fresh,  fair  youth, 
So  full  of  tenderness  and  truth, 

Was  wet  with  tears  for  love  of  me, 

And  if  I smiled,  not  doom  to  be 
For  ever  fading.  And  she  spoke 
In  sighings  wild,  that,  fluttering,  broke 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


61 


From  the  heart’s  prison,  where  they  had  slept 
A long,  sad  slumber — and  she  wept 
Warm,  streaming  tears,  and  knew  not  whether 
In  love  or  grief,  or  both  together, 

Their  gushings  wandered.  Needs  there  more 
To  tell  a tale  oft  told  before  ? 

I braved  the  sea,  and  was  tempest-tossed  ; 

I looked,  and  listened,  and  was  lost ! 


Beauty ! — The  bard’s  eternal  theme — 
His  long,  long  sigh,  his  ceaseless  dream — 
His  hope,  his  virtue,  and  his  sin — 

The  breath  that  brings  him  life  within ! — 
To  bask  an  hour,  bright  beam ! in  thee, 
How  have  I darkened  my  destiny, 

When  it  was  shining  clear  and  calm, 

And  dared  to  be  the  thing  I am ! 

With  thee,  my  life  wove  all  its  flowers ; 
For  thee,  my  eyes  shed  all  their  showers ; 
For  thee,  I left  my  field  of  fame, 

And  risked  a dear  and  deathless  name  ; 
For  thee,  I gave  up  my  world  to  brave 
The  rushing  wind  and  roaring  wave  ; 

In  my  Paradise  I forgot 

Its  flowers  for  thee,  and  loved  them  not ; 

For  thee,  my  sin  was  unforgiven, 

And  I left  my  earth,  and  lost  my  heaven ! 


62 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


Wliat  was  her  story?  Hear  it  flow 
In  her  own  wild  words  of  woe. 


“Ossian,  thou  wert  my  soul’s  first  sigh, 
My  virgin  heart’s  idolatry ! 

I saw  thee  in  thy  father’s  hall, 

The  fairest  there,  the  first  of  all — 

The  softest  voice  of  sounding  song, 

The  bravest  in  the  battle  throng, 

The  rosiest  cheek,  the  richest  smile 
That  lighted  up  our  own  green  isle. 

I saw  thee,  but  alone  I stood 
In  my  young  heart’s  widowhood ; 

I was  too  lowly  ever  to  be 
A beam  of  loveliness  to  thee  ; 

Yet,  like  the  flower,  I looked  upon 
My  own  loved  light  where’er  it  shone, 

Till  it  had  scorched  my  leaves  at  last, 

And  left  them  withering  in  the  blast! 


“ It  was  my  spring — my  budding  hour — 
And  in  thy  smile  my  heart  was  born. 

And  for  thy  sake  it  got  the  power 
Of  loving  in  that  maiden  morn. 

But  when  it  loved  too  long  and  lone, 

And  had  no  hope  of  love  from  thee, 

Still,  like  the  flower,  when  the  light  is  gone, 
It  shut  its  leaves,  and  would  not  be. 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


G3 


No  colder  smile,  no  moonshine  glow, 
Might  ever  waken  it  from  its  woe ! 


“ I was  the  most  forsaken  one 
That  walked  and  wept  beneath  the  sun ! 
The  virgin  stream,  the  first  fond  gush 
My  young  heart  gave  ; it  could  not  rush 
Forth  and  rejoice,  but  backward  crept, 
And  in  the  poor  heart’s  silence  slept — 
Sickening  in  its  own  repose, 

Like  dull  deep  water  that  never  flows. 
My  youth  was  joyless — and  my  fate, 

I thought  it  dark  and  desolate, 

As  if  thy  own  harp,  all  forsaken, 

Lay  silent  and  untouched  by  thee, 

For  no  other  hand  could  waken 
Its  neglected  harmony ! 


“ One  wish  I had.  It  was  to  take 
My  death  from  him  I loved  so  well. 

My  heart  was  breaking,  and  would  break, 
Ere  words  or  sighs  its  tale  might  tell ; 
But  rather  than  live  till  it  grew  dark 
In  its  own  helplessness,  I sought 
His  shining  sword,  to  strike  one  spark 
Of  feeling  thro’  it.  I recked  not 
If  pain  or  pleasure  ; and  in  the  flame 
Which  from  that  spark  all  quickly  came, 


C4 


THE  CELT'S  PARADISE. 


I thought  it  would  be  bliss  to  burn, 

And  into  dull  cold  ashes  turn ! 

“ I thought  from  him  who  bade  me  cease 
To  love,  such  recompense  were  due — 

I thought  that  he  who  killed  my  peace 
Should  kill  my  mind  and  memory  too  ! 

“ I had  iny  wish ! The  battle  came — 

The  blazing  sun  flung  forth  its  flame — 

The  Fenii  went  to  quell  the  pride 
Of  Morni’s  host.  That  evening  tide 
I grasped  a spear — thy  foeman’s  crest 
My  flushed  and  throbbing  forehead  pressed, 
And  I felt  no  fear  ! A warrior  boy, 

So  young  thou  scarcely  couldst  destroy, 
Came  out  to  brave  thee  from  the  crowd ; 
Like  a faint  flash  from  a tempest-cloud, 

Thy  sword  descended  on  my  breast, 

And  I thought  I had  my  pleasant  rest. 

“ But  here  on  this  bright  shore  I woke, 

To  weep  for  thee  and  love  thee  still ; 

Thy  sword  my  young  life’s  vision  broke, 
My  memory  it  could  not  kill ! 

I sate  alone  by  the  bubbling  stream, 

And  sang  a song  of  fondness  to  it — 

But  it  gushed  on  ; and  in  my  dream, 

Often  I would  wildly  woo  it ; 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


G5 


And  ever  as  it  stole  away, 

I wept  and  sighed,  ‘ False  Ossian  stay  !’ 
It  took  my  tear,  it  heard  me  sigh, 

And  smiled  in  scorn,  and  passed  me  by. 


“ Go,  Ossian,  go.  Thy  sleeping  flower 
Hath  wakened  in  her  happy  bower. 

My  tale  is  told.  But  art  thou  here, 
Breathing  the  same  soft  air  with  me  ; 
And  must  I weep  my  widowed  tear, 

And  never,  never  blissful  be? 


“Go,  Ossian,  go.  I wish  for  thee 
A life  of  love  eternally, 

Tho’  thou  hast  been  to  me  the  blast 

That  chilled  my  dream  of  one  world’s  bliss, 

And  from  that  triumph  now  hath  passed 
To  wither  up  my  hopes  in  this. 

Oh  kill  me,  Ossian,  once  again, 

And  my  sleep  may  be  eternal  then!” 

Her  soft  voice  sunk  in  broken  sighs, 

Half  rapture  and  half  agonies  ; 

Her  soft  blue  eyes  were  shut  in  tears, 

And  they  bathed  her  lips,  and  the  red  and  white 
Of  her  rich  cheek — and  thus  appears, 

Ere  the  sun  comes  to  lend  them  light, 


66 


the  celt?s  paradise. 


A cluster  of  tliroe  fairest  flowers, 

Lily,  violet,  and  rose, 

Sorrowing  in  the  dewy  showers 
The  night  has  wept  on  their  repose. 

And  one  white  arm  she  tossed  on  high, 
And  it  fell  against  a green  bank  nigh, 
Resting  there  unconsciously — 

And  over  it  her  head  was  drooping 
So  hopelessly!  And  she  was  stooping, 
Half-turned  from  my  enraptured  look 
That  now  in  all  its  glancings  took 
Abundant  love.  Oh  who  could  pause 
For  the  cold,  pitiful  applause 
Of  prudence  then!  Nay,  had  I stood 
On  the  bare  edge  of  a rock, 

And  saw  her  thus  beneath  a flood 
The  wildest  of  the  wild,  its  shock 
I could  despise,  and  brave,  and  mock — 
Plunging,  tho’  to  my  early  grave, 

To  clasp  and  kiss  her  under  its  wave ! 

And  forward  I have  bent  and  sighed 
A sigh  that  lier’s  have  multiplied — 

And  now  my  wooing  arms  are  stealing 
Round  her — and  now  I am  unveiling 
Her  young  cheek  from  the  wild  bright  hair 
That  strove  to  hide  its  blushings  fair, 

Like  a golden  sunburst  streaming  proud 
O’er  summer  evening’s  crimson  cloud — 


TIIE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


67 


And  gentle  strife  I have  to  turn 
Her  lips  to  mine  that  madly  burn — 

And  half  an  effort  she  would  make 
My  fond  embraces  not  to  take. 

At  last  she  paused,  and  in  my  eyes 
Looked  up  in  questioning  surprise ; 

And  chilling  doubts,  and  hopes  and  fears, 
And  wishings  wild,  and  smiles  and  tears, 
On  her  cheek,  and  in  her  eye, 

Mingled  and  fought  for  mastery. 

And  love  can  read  the  look  it  loves 
So  true,  the  reading  never  proves 
Doubtful  or  false ; and  when  she  dwelt 
Long,  long  on  mine,  and  knew  and  felt 
My  heart  was  her’s,  that  happy  maid 
One  step  drew  back,  while  laughter  played 
Convulsive  on  her  lip,  then  flung 
Herself  around  me,  warm  and  young, 

And,  blushing  bright,  and  wildly  weeping, 
Crept  close  into  my  bosom’s  keeping. 

“ By  the  smooth  lake’s  silver  wave 
A bower  of  loveliness  I have — 

Over  the  mountain,  away  and  far, 

Where  nothing  but  flowers  and  breezes  are. 
I wove  it  in  that  pathless  wild, 

To  weep  alone,  when  others  smiled — 

And  its  friendly  shade  my  secret  kept, 

And  no  laugh  was  round  me  when  I wept — 


68 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


And  not  a leaf  its  wildness  wears 
But  lias  been  nurtured  in  ray  tears. 


‘‘Oh!  we  will  go  together  there, 

And  give  the  drooping  flowers  one  smile, 

And  they  will  look  more  fresh  and  fair, 

Than  any  in  this  blessed  isle! 

No  sound  or  voice  will  ever  come 

On  our  silence  to  intrude, 

And  thou  shalt  have  my  flowery  home 
» 

And  faithful  heart  in  solitude !” 


The  kiss  was  given! — and  a wind 
Came  rushing  o'er  the  rocks  behind — 

Too  rude  to  be  the  breeze  that  fanned 
The  roses  of  that  happy  land  ; 

And  as  it  hurried  by,  the  air 
Darkened,  and  made  a shadow  there, 

Which  feebly  and  confusedly  took 
My  Spirit’s  form  ; her  cloudy  look 
Glanced  anger  on  me,  and  she  passed 
Careering  on  the  wrathful  blast. 

Then  I was  in  a place  all  light 

And  silence.  Shapes  more  chastely  white 

Than  I had  seen  stood  in  a throng 

Entranced,  as  list’ning  to  some  song 

Of  holy  power,  which  they  alone 

Might  hear  and  worship.  And  there  was  one, 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


G9 


Throned  in  the  midst — a radiant  form 
Of  unveiled  glory,  but  not  warm 
And  scorching  like  the  sun’s  ; his  light, 
Tho’  it  dazzled  more,  was  silvery  bright 
And  awful ; and  he  was  the  king 
Of  Paradise — and  every  thing 
That  lives  or  breathes. 


A creature  knelt 

Weeping  beneath  his  smile,  which  dwelt 
Pleasantly  on  her.  Then  I felt 
The  fear  of  crime  ; for  well  I knew 
Her  to  whose  love  I was  untrue. 

She  motioned  at  me ; and  that  high 

And  awful  being  on  my  eye 

Flashed  frowning  terrors — a frown  ; but  aught 

Of  earthly  anger  it  had  not ; 

There  was  no  shade  in  it,  nor  less 
Of  glory ; rather  it  did  compress 
Into  one  self-assuming  glance 
The  rays  of  his  whole  countenance  ; 

And  it  was  a frown  of  gathered  light, 

More  dreadful  than  the  glooms  of  night. 


Then  all  things  faded.  From  my  soul 
Its  pure  immortal  Spirit  stole, 

And  human  terrors  filled  my  brain, 

And,  curdling,  ran  thro’  every  vein  ; 


70 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


And  either  the  land  receded  fast, 
And  shook  me  from  its  edge  at  last, 
Or  some  strong  invisible  arm 
Bound  me  in  its  chilly  charm, 

And,  unresisting,  I was  hurled 
Into  a cold  and  darkened  world. 


I stood  alone  in  thickened  gloom. 

I thought  it  might  be  one  spreading  tomb 
For  the  whole  earth,  and  that  around 
All  things  their  sepulchre  had  found 
Under  the  broad  vault  of  the  sky, 

Which  closed  on  them  too  suddenly 
While  yet  they  lived.  Feeble  and  far 
A blood-red,  half-distinguished  star 
Lent  sullen  light.  One  lurid  streak 
Fell  from  it  on  the  raven  cheek 
Of  utter  darkness  ; and  around, 

Terrific  forms  in  silence  frowned, 
Shapeless  and  nameless ; and  to  mine  eye, 
Sometimes  they  rolled  off  cloudily, 
Wedding  themselves  with  gloom,  or  grew 
Gigantic  on  my  troubled  view, 

And  seemed  to  gather  round  me.  Few 
And  fearful  were  the  thoughts  that  came 
Upon  me  in  that  hour.  The  same 
Might  be  his  thinkings  who  hath  stood, 
Dizzy  amid  the  dashing  flood, 


THE  CELT  S PARADISE. 


71 


On  a poor  plank,  hopeless  to  save 
One  breathing  moment  from  that  wave  ; 

Or  it  was  as  if  within  the  womb, 

While  yet  in  uncreated  gloom, 

The  embryo-soul  could  faintly  feel 
A little  while  its  promised  zeal, 

Then,  darkening  in  its  own  essay, 

Melt  once  again  to  night  away. 

And  I looked  toward  that  far,  far  light, 
And  suddenly  upon  my  sight 
It  swelled  and  parted  ; and  as  a spark 
Shook  from  it,  but  now  quenched  and  dark, 
I saw  a dim  and  dusky  form, 

Like  any  our  fancy’s  dream  may  warm 
With  life,  come  forward  ; and  I thought, 
Far  off,  with  clouds  and  gloom  it  fought, 
And  traversed  hills  and  deserts,  set 
Even  in  remotest  distance  yet. 

But  quick  and  dark  it  came,  and  swelled 
To  giant  size  ; and  I beheld 
Its  cloudy  face.  On  me  it  bent 
A look  of  dark  and  dread  intent. 

I strove  to  flee  it ; but  my  blood 
Curdled,  and  there,  unnerved,  I stood, 
Helpless  and  hopeless.  Nearer  still 
The  giant  came.  Intent  to  kill, 

His  cloudy  arm  he  raised  on  high, 

And  again  I feebly  strove  to  fly, 


72 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


And  backward  fell.  Oh!  Then  I stepped 
On  a loose  rock,  that  trembling  kept 
Unfaithful  watch  o’er  a gulf  below 
Of  depth  unfathomed.  I slide  ! I go  ! 

But  in  my  fall  I madly  grasp 

And  cling  to  something! — and  I gasp, 

Suspended  there,  in  sick’ning  dread — 

Ruin  below,  and  overhead 
Darkness — and  that  terrific  form 
My  heart’s  blood  shrinks  from. 

Breathings  warm 

Are  near  me.  Mighty  God!  I see 
That  maid  so  well  beloved  of  me, 

In  fainting  weakness,  clinging  there, 

Like  a white  mist,  hung  in  morning  air. 

O’er  the  hill’s  brow.  Her  only  stay 
Is  a loose  ledge  of  rock  and  clay, 

That  cannot  give  her  rest.  It  shakes ! — 

It  yields ! — it  crumbles ! — ha ! it  breaks  ! 

Oh,  horror ! horror ! — And  she  falls 
Thro’  depths  of  darkness ! — and  she  calls 
On  Ossian  still ! Her  frenzied  shriek 
Still  upward  thro’  that  gloom  will  break 
On  my  pierced  ear.  Again,  again 
It  thrills  my  heart  and  stabs  my  brain, 

And  I am  sick  with  fear  and  pain. 

I fail ! — I faint ! — I sink  ! — I fall ! 

Down,  down  thro’  darkness,  rocks  and  all ! 


THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


73 


This  was  my  punishment.  I woke, 

I know  not  how,  as  the  morning  broke, 
And  again  sat  under  the  wild-wood  tree, 
An  earthly  sun  once  more  to  see — 

And  thro’  the  leaves  his  beamings  glanced, 
And  on  the  green  turf  gayly  danced 
In  chequered  radiance,  quick  and  fair, 
Like  laughing  eyes  thro’  parted  hair. 


NOTES  TO  THE  CELT’S  PARADISE. 


NOTES  TO  THE  FIRST  DEAN. 


Page  8,  line  4. 

u Lead  me  to  Slieve  Gulliari s bread.1  1 

Slieve  Gullian  is  a mountain  in  the  County  of  Armagh,  often  men- 
tioned  in  our  old  Irish  poems  as  the  scene  of  many  gallant  and  chiv- 
alrous exploits  of  Finn  Mac  Comhal,  his  sons  Ossian  and  Firgus,  and 
his  grandson  Osgur.  Its  scenery,  and  the  traditions  connected  with 
it,  render  this  celebrated  mountain  an  object  of  classic  interest  to  all 
lovers  of  national  legend  and  antiquity.  The  following  description  of 
it  (for  which  the  author  is  indebted  to  Miss  Brooks,  and  that  lady  to 
a correspondent)  may  not  be  amiss  in  this  place  : 

“I  am  a tenant  to  a lady  for  Slieve  Gullian,  and  often  visit  it  during 
the  summer  season  to  see  my  cattle.  In  July  last  (1788)  I went  over 
the  extent  of  this  mountain.  From  bottom  to  top  it  is  reckoned  two 
miles  ; on  the  summit  there  is  a large  heap  of  stones,  which  is  called 
Cailbach  Birnn’s  House,  in  which,  it  is  said,  Finn  Mac  Comhal  lies 
buried ; and  at  a hundred  paces  distant,  in  nearly  the  same  line,  there 
is  a circular  lake,  the  diameter  of  which  is  about  one  hundred  feet, 
and  is  about  twenty  deep ; on  one  side  of  this  lake  another  heap  of 
stones  is  piled  ; and  round  it,  at  all  seasons,  is  a beaten  path  leading  to 
the  old  lady’s  or  witch’s  house.  Lately  some  peasants,  expecting  to 
find  the  old  woman  (who,  however,  has  at  no  time  thought  proper  to 


76 


NOTES. 


appear),  threw  down  her  house,  and  came  to  a large  cave,  about  twenty 
feet  long,  ten  broad,  and  five  deep,  covered  with  flags,  in  which  either 
the  dame  or  money  was  expected,  but  only  a few  human  bones  were 
found.  From  the  summit  of  this  mountain,  if  the  day  happens  to  be 
fine,  you  command  an  extensive  view  of  Lough  Neagh,  and  all  the 
circumjacent  country. * ' 

The  lake  here  described  is  rendered  famous  on  account  of  an  old 
poetical  romance  which  details  an  interview  on  its  margin  between 
the  then  resident  enchantress  of  the  place  and  the  redoubtable  Finn 
Mac  Comhal,  which  terminated  all  but  fatally  for  (notwithstanding 
Messrs.  Blair  and  Macpherson)  that  flower  of  Irish  chivalry.  The 
enchantress  was  encountered  by  Finn  in  the  shape  of  a beautiful 
woman,  bewailing  the  loss  of  her  favorite  ring,  which,  as  she  avowed, 
had  just  dropped  into  the  lake.  Half  urged  by  the  lady’s  solicitude, 
half  by  his  own  gallantry,  the  hero  dived  after  the  ring,  and  owing  to 
the  supernatural  influence  of  the  enchanted  waters,  became  imme- 
diately transformed  from  a hale,  blooming  chevalier  into  a wrinkled, 
tottering  old  man.  Finn’s  myrmidons,  however,  coming  soon  after 
in  pursuit  of  their  chief,  and  justly  suspecting  that  the  enchantress 
of  Slieve  Gullian  had  something  to  do  with  his  sudden  disappearance, 
obliged  her  by  threat  and  main  force  to  restore  him  to  his  original 
shape.  The  cave  wdiich  has  been  described  by  Miss  Brooks’  corre- 
spondent, was  at  that  time  the  known  residence  of  the  enchantress, 
and  out  of  it  she  is  made  to  issue,  in  the  romance  alluded  to,  at  the 
command  of  Finn’s  companions  in  arms. 


Page  8,  line  10. 

11  Than  those  thy  altar  hells  are  ringing .” 

Large  bells  to  toll  for  church  service  are  not  here  meant,  but  the 
little  tinkling  bells,  at  all  times,  as  well  as  now,  made  use  of  in  Roman 
Catholic  churches  during  the  celebration  of  the  Mass.  They  are 
alluded  to  by  Ossian  in  many  old  poems  with  much  contempt. 


NOTES. 


77 


“ Small  bells  (such,  we  mean,  as  were  appended  to  the  tunic  of  the 
Jewish  High  Priest,  and  afterwards  employed  by  the  Greeks  and  Ho- 
mans for  various  religious  purposes,  but  particularly  to  frighten  ghosts 
and  demons  from  their  temples)  were  undoubtedly  introduced  with 
Christianity  into  this  kingdom  (Ireland).  Their  use  among  the  Chris- 
tian clergy  is  supposed  to  be  coeval  with  their  religion  ; and  the  mis- 
sionaries who  were  sent  to  convert  the  Pagan  Irish  would  not  omit 
bringing  with  them  an  appendage  of  their  profession,  which  is  still 
thought  so  necessary.” — Walker’s  Hist.  Mem.  of  the  Irish  Bards , p.  93. 


Page  8,  line  11. 

11  And  thy  white-robed  Caldees  singing .” 

Culdus,  the  ancient  Irish  name  for  priest;  originally,  perhaps, 
synonymous  with  Druid. 

Page  12,  lines  16  and  17. 

11  And  for  this , must  prayers  be  read , 

And  beads  be  told , and  matins  said  f 1 

It  is  hoped  that  little  apology  will  be  necessary  for  the  wayward 
reasoning  of  the  old  bard  in  this  and  similar  passages.  Ossian,  as  the 
legend  goes,  was  found  by  St.  Patrick  in  a state  of  utter  Paganism. 
He  is  represented  in  many  old  rhymes,  as  well  as  in  the  present  in- 
stance, but  half  convinced  of,  half  converted  to,  Christianity;  and 
this  may  extenuate  the  crime  of  his  indulging,  now  and  then,  in  a 
preference  for  the  convenient  heaven  of  his  own  wild  mythology. 
But  in  Miss  Brooks’  translation  of  “Pteliques  of  Irish  Poetry,”  he  is 
made  to  speak  more  positive  impiety  than  one  would  be  induced  to 
imitate  or  hazard  for  him  at  present — thus, 

“ Where  was  thy  God  in  that  sad  day, 

When  o’er  Sioni’s  wave, 

Two  heroes  ploughed  the  watery  way 
Their  beauteous  prize  to  save  ? 


78 


NOTES. 


“ Or  on  that  day  when  Jailk’s  proud  might 
Invaded  Erin's  coast — 

Where  was  thy  Godhead  in  that  fight, 

And  where  thy  empty  boast?" 

Perhaps  no  printed  poem  or  legend  extant  affords  hope  of  the 
emancipation  of  the  old  poet  from  these  dangerous  prejudices.  A 
tradition,  however,  which  I recollect  to  have  heard  in  early  childhood, 
would  appear  to  give  him  the  credit  and  advantage  of  a full  and  per- 
fect conversion.  According  to  it,  Ossian,  at  some  period  or  other, 
was  absolutely  baptized  by  St.  Patrick.  During  the  ceremony,  the 
saint,  to  prove  his  penitent’s  humility  and  self-command,  transfixed 
his  foot  to  the  ground  by  striking  the  spike  of  his  crosier  through  it. 
The  tradition  adds — This  rather  severe  trial  of  his  Christian  docility 
was  not  met  even  by  an  expostulation  on  the  part  of  the  reformed 
Free-thinker. 

It  may  be  proper  to  remark  that  the  same  circumstance  is  told  as 
an  historical  fact  by  Keating,  O’Halloran,  and  others,  of  St.  Patrick, 
and  the  first  Irish  king  who  embraced  Christianity. 


Page  14.,  lines  17  and  18. 

‘ 1 Give  me  the  old  Clarseech  I hung 
On  my  loved  tree.  ’ ' 

Clarseech , the  old  Irish  name  for  harp.  Perhaps  this  title  is  not 
meant  to  designate  the  national  harp,  as  used  by  the  bards  in  princely 
halls,  or  on  important  occasions.  It  would  rather  seem  to  apply  to  a 
modification  of  the  latter,  corresponding,  in  point  of  lightness  and 
partiality,  to  the  Grecian  lyre.  The  small  one  exhibited  in  the  mu- 
seum of  Trinity  College  is  that  used  by  Brian  Borseme,  and  certainly 
gives  no  adequate  idea  of  a musical  instrument  so  celebrated  as  the 
Irish  harp  has  been  for  the  compass  and  power  of  its  melody ; and 
probably  a distinction  either  has  been  or  could  be  made  between  the 
Clarseech,  with  which  the  interesting  relic  just  mentioned  would 


NOTES. 


79 


appear  to  class,  and  a larger  and  more  important  instrument,  all 
authentic  models  of  which  are,  at  this  remote  day,  extinct. 


Page  15,  line  1. 

u All  day  ive  chased  the  dark-broivn  deer.” 

These  hunting-matches  continued  several  days,  and  in  some  seasons 
several  months.  At  night  they  encamped  in  woods,  and  reposed  in 
booths  covered  with  the  skins  of  animals  they  hunted  down. 

The  chase  was  to  them  (the  ancient  Irish)  “a  sort  of  military 
school,  which  rendered  toil  easy,  and  annexed  a pleasure  to  the 
rudest  fatigue.  It  gave  them  great  muscular  strength,  and  great  agility 
and  firmness  against  the  severity  of  the  most  rigorous  seasons.  It 
besides  taught  them  vigilance,  skill  in  archery,  and  great  patience 
under  long  abstinence  from  food.  They  came  out  of  the  forest  expert 
soldiers  ; and  no  nation  could  excel  them  in  rapid  marches , quick  retreats , 
and  sudden  sallies.’ ’ — O'Connor  s Dissertations , p.  77,  101. 

This  quotation  is  made,  principally,  to  support  the  admission  of  a 
liberty  into  which  the  author  makes  little  doubt  he  has  fallen — namely, 
that  of  giving  to  Ossian  the  accompaniment  of  a horse  on  the  partic- 
ular occasion  to  which  he  here  alludes.  It  is  evident  that  O’Connor 
means  to  describe  a chase  pursued  on  foot,  as  the  words  marked  in 
italics  in  the  quotation  will  sufficiently  show  ; and  he  must  further  be 
understood  to  speak  of  the  very  time  in  which  Ossian  is,  according  to 
the  poem,  supposed  to  have  lived.  But  the  impropriety  of  making 
Ossian  a cavalier  will  more  strongly  appear  when  wre  come  to  observe 
on  the  national  military  body  of  which  our  Irish  authorities  would 
make  him  a distinguished  member. 

Page  15,  line  3. 

11  We  broke  the  dew  on  Allen’s  breast.” 

A hill  in  the  County  of  Kildare,  whose  identity  cannot  now  be  as- 
certained, was  at  the  real  or  imaginary  era  to  which  wre  could  refer, 


80 


NOTES. 


called  “ the  Ilill  of  Allen,”  from  the  palace  of  Allen  built  on  its  top, 
much  celebrated  as  the  seat  of  Finn  Mac  Comhal.  Of  this,  more  in 
another  place. 


Fage  18,  line  9. 

‘ ‘ And  in  my  helmet  water  clear.  ’ 9 

It  would  have  been  taking  rather  a hazardous  liberty  to  have 
given  Ossian  any  body-armor  except  the  helmet.  In  describing  Fitz- 
Stephen’s  first  disastrous  attack  on  the  town  of  Wexford  in  1169, 
Gerald  Barry,  Champion,  Stanihurst,  Zeanmcr,  and  later  writers,  affirm 
that  among  other  appalling  accompaniments,  the  shining  armor  of 
the  English  knights  was  a terrifying  spectacle  to  the  natives.  Taking 
leave  to  form  our  own  opinion  as  to  the  passions  excited  on  the  occa- 
sion, we  must  infer  from  these  authorities  that  the  native  Irish  did 
not  at  that  time  wear  armor.  Our  own  writers  almost  concur  in  this 
opinion. 

“ It  should  seem  that  body-armor  of  any  kind  was  unknown  to  the 
Irish  previous  to  the  tenth  century,  as  we  find  King  Murker tach,  in 
that  century,  obtaining  the  ascititious  name  of  Muirkentach  na  goechall 
croceann  for  so  obvious  an  invention  as  that  of  the  leathern  jacket. 
Yet  coats  of  mail  are  mentioned  in  the  Brehon  Laws,  and  the  word 
mail  is  supposed  to  be  derived  from  mala  in  Irish.  Though  the  poets 
of  the  Middle  Ages  describe  the  heroes  of  Ossian  as  shining  in  polished 
steel,  no  relic  of  that  kind  of  armor  has  escaped  the  wreck  of  time  in 
Ireland  ; nor  has  there  even  a specimen  of  the  brass  armor,  in  which, 
it  is  said,  the  Danes  so  often  met  the  Irish,  fallen  under  my  observa- 
tion. Smith,  indeed,  tells  us  that  corselets  of  pure  gold  were  dis- 
covered on  the  lands  of  Clonties,  in  the  County  of  Kerry  ; but  these 
might  have  been  left  there  by  the  Spaniards,  who  had  a fortification 
called  Fort  del  Ore  adjoining  those  lands. 

“That  the  bodies  of  Irishmen  should  have  been  totally  defenceless 
with  respect  to  armor  during  their  several  bloody  contests  with  the 
Danes,  I am  neither  prepared  to  admit  nor  deny ; but  I confess  myself 


NOTES. 


81 


inclined  to  think  that  their  inflexible  attachment  to  their  civil  dress 
would  not  yield  to  the  fashion  of  the  martial  garb  of  their  enemies, 
though  it  gave  those  people  an  evident  advantage  over  them  in  the 
field  of  battle.  It  is,  however,  certain  that  the  English  did  not  find 
them  cased  in  armor.” — Walker  s list.  Essay  on  the  Dress  and  Armor  of 
the  Irish,  p.  106. 

But  that  helmets,  at  least,  were  worn  in  Ireland  previous  to  the 
tenth  century,  is  certain  from  some  Irish  coins  found  (according  to 
Simon’s  Essay  on  Irish  Coins  and  Trans,  of  the  B.  S.  Acad.)  in  the 
Queen’s  County,  in  the  year  1786. 


Page  20,  line  15. 

“ A Sidhee  spirit 

1 1 Saint  Patrick  happened  to  be  chanting  his  matins  with  three  of 
his  bishops,  and  a great  number  of  his  clergy,  very  early  on  a morn- 
ing, at  a fountain  called  Clabach,  to  the  east  of  Cruachan,  when  the 
two  princesses,  daughters  of  Laogar,  the  then  King  of  Ireland,  at  sun- 
rise, came  forth  to  wash  their  faces  and  view  themselves  in  that  foun- 
tain, as  in  a mirror. 

“When  the  princesses  saw  these  venerable  gentlemen,  clothed  in 
white  surplices,  and  holding  hooks  in  their  hands,  astonished  at  their 
unusual  dress  and  attitudes,  they  looked  upon  them  to  he  the  people 
Sidhee.  The  Irish  call  these  Sidhee  aerial  spirits  or  phantoms,  because 
they  are  seen  to  come  out  of  pleasant  hills,  where  the  common  people 
imagine  they  reside ; which  fictitious  habitations  are  called  by  us 
Sidhee  or  Siodha. 

“From  whence  we  may  infer  that  the  divinities  of  the  Irish  were 
local  ones — that  is,  residing  in  mountains,  plains,  and  such  places.” — 
O’  Flaherty' s Ogygia. 

It  will  be  seen  that  one  liberty  has  been  taken  with  these  continent 
divinities.  O’ Flaherty  would  appear  to  limit  their  residence  to  the 


82 


NOTES. 


hills  and  plains  of  this  earth  : in  the  foregoing  poem  they  are  assumed 
to  have  lived  and  breathed  in  a world  and  atmosphere  peculiar  to 
themselves. 


NOTES  TO  THE  SECOND  DUAN. 


Page  22,  line  17. 

“ Allen  s stately  hall ” 

The  palace  of  Almliain,  Almliuin,  Alwin,  or  Allen,  alluded  to  in  a 
former  note  as  built  on  the  top  of  the  Hill  of  Allen,  in  the  County  of 
Kildare,  and  much  celebrated  as  the  principal  residence  of  Finn  Mac 
Comlial.  According  to  Keating  (p.  271),  Moona,  or  Muirne  (the  be- 
loved maid  of  the  fascinating  wiles),  was  the  mother  of  Finn,  and  he 
possessed  this  palace  in  her  right. 

In  the  rhapsody  of  Ossian,  which  gives  an  account  of  the  seven 
redoubtable  battalions  of  the  Finii,  there  is  a passage  descriptive  of 
the  palace  of  Allen,  its  economy,  feasts,  &c.,  in  English,  as  follows  : 

“I  have  seen  when  I banqueted  in  the  halls  of  Finn,  at  every 
banquet  a thousand  cups,  bound  with  wreaths  of  wrought  gold. 

‘ ‘ There  were  twelve  palaces,  filled  with  the  troops  of  the  son  of  the 
daughter  of  Tagus,  at  Almhain,  of  the  noble  Finii. 

“ Twelve  constant  fires  flamed  in  each  princely  house:  and  each 
fire  was  surrounded  by  an  hundred  of  the  mighty  Finii.” 

This  description  reminds  us  of  the  good  old  times  in  ‘ * Branksome 
Hall.” 

Page  31,  line  1 and  2. 

‘ 1 The  stars  were  up,  and , weak  and  small, 

They  twinkled  round  a darken'd  hall.'1 

In  partial  excuse  for  Ossian’ s unscientific  description  of  this  ap- 
pearance of  the  earth  among  the  other  heavenly  bodies,  it  may  be 


N0TE3. 


83 


considered  that  the  flood  of  ages  and  revolutions  had  swept  away  all 
trace  of  the  astronomical  acquirement  which  his  Phoenician  and  Egyp- 
tian ancestors,  Heber  and  Heremon,  might  be  supposed  to  have  trans- 
planted into  Ireland  at  (according  to  our  devoted  lovers  of  extreme 
antiquity)  their  first  descent  on  the  country,  a.  m.  2240. 


NOTES  TO  THE  THIRD  DUAN. 


Page  34,  line  10. 

u Away,  and  leave  me  to  my  wrath.” 

In  many  of  the  old  Irish  poems  before  alluded  to,  misunderstand 
ings  and  bickerings  often  occur  between  Ossian  and  St.  Patrick,  of 
which  this  passage  would  presume  to  be  no  more  then  a very  humble 
imitation.  One  or  two  specimens  from  Miss  Brooks’  devoted  trans- 
lation will  give  a pretty  fair  idea  of  the  whole. 

* 1 Patrick. 

“Drop  we  our  speech  on  either  side, 

Thou  bald  and  senseless  fool ! 

In  torments  all  thy  race  abide, 

While  God  in  heaven  shall  rule.” 
o * © o © © © 

1 1 Ossian. 

“Now,  Patrick  of  the  scanty  store 
And  meagre-making  face ! 

Say,  didst  thou  ever  meet  before 
This  memorable  chase?” 


84 


NOTES. 


Page  34,  line  17. 

“ Oh,  Osgur  ! my  heart's  darling  son.” 

Scotch  and  Irish  hards  and  antiquarians  agree  tolerably  well  in 
their  pedigree  of  Ossian’s  family  : the  former  only  differing  from  the 
latter  by  going  a little  further  back.  Thus  : Tagus  had  a daughter 
who  was  married  and  had  Comhal,  who  was  married  (to  Moona)  and 
had  Finn,  who  was  married  and  had  Ossian  and  Fergus  ; Ossian  had 
Osgur  : Fergus  appears  to  have  died  unmarried.  Fergus  is  much 
famed  for  gentleness  of  character  in  all  our  old  rhymes,  and  esteemed 
a poet  scarcely  inferior  to  Ossian.  He  was,  in  fact,  the  official  bard  of 
his  father,  Finn  Mac  Comhal,  and  supplied  the  place  of  the  “spirit- 
stirring  ’ ’ trumpet,  by  rushing  among  his  ranks  during  the  deathful 
conflict,  and  exciting  the  courage  and  energies  of  the  heroes  by  the 
delivering  of  extemporaneous  odes.  Among  the  originals  given  by 
Miss  Brooks  of  her  “ Eeliques,”  there  are  some  pieces  attributed  to 
Fergus,  which,  if  we  may  be  allowed  to  judge  of  them  through  the 
medium  of  that  lady’s  translation,  appear  to  possess  many  fine  and 
daring  passages. 

Again : we  meet  in  our  national  poems  almost  all  the  names,  in- 
dependent of  Ossian’s  family,  to  which  Mr.  Macpherson  has  familiar- 
ized the  literary  world.  We  find  Cuchullin,  “mighty  chief,”  Cairbre, 
Morni  and  his  son  Gall  or  Gaul : the  latter  regarded  as  a warrior  of 
formidable  powers,  not  yielding  even  to  Finn  in  the  terrors  of  his 
arm. 


Page  34,  line  22. 

“ The  last  of  all  the  Fenian  race.” 

“The  Irish  in  general  were  called  Fenians  or  Phenians,  from  theii 
great  ancestor  Phinius-Tarsa,  or  perhaps  in  allusion  to  their  Phoeni- 
cian descent.  But  the  Leinster  legions  proudly  arrogated  that  name 
entirely  to  themselves,  and  called  their  celebrated  body  exclusively 
Fenii,  or  Fiana  Eireann.” — Miss  Brooks,  p.  158. 


NOTES. 


85 


Of  this  body  Finn  Mac  Comlial  was  commander- in- chief ; and  hence 
his  appellation  of  King  of  the  Fenii. 

u The  constant  number  of  this  standing  army  in  times  of  peace,  and 
when  there  was  no  disturbances  at  home,  nor  any  want  of  their  assist- 
ance to  their  allies  abroad,  were  nine  thousand  men,  divided  equally 
into  three  battalions.  But  in  case  of  any  apprehension  of  a conspiracy, 
or  a rebellion  against  the  monarch,  or  if  there  was  any  necessity  of 
transporting  a body  of  troops  to  Scotland,  in  order  to  defend  their 
allies,  the  Dalriades,  it  was  in  the  power  of  Finn  to  increase  his  forces 
to  seven  battalions  of  three  thousand  each.  Every  battalion  was  com- 
manded by  a colonel ; every  hundred  men  by  a captain ; an  officer  in 
the  nature  of  a lieutenant  was  set  over  every  fifty ; and  a serjeant, 
resembling  the  Decurio  of  the  Homans,  was  at  the  head  of  every  five- 
and- twenty.  When  they  were  drawn  out  for  action,  every  hundred 
men  were  distributed  into  ten  files,  with  ten  (of  course)  in  each  ; and 
the  leader  of  the  file  gave  the  word  to  the  other  nine.  As  it  was 
thought  a great  honor  to  belong  to  this  invincible  body  of  troops, 
their  general  was  very  strict  in  insisting  on  the  qualifications  neces- 
sary for  admission  into  it. 

“ The  parents  (or  near  relations)  of  every  candidate  for  the  militia 
were  to  give  security  that  they  would  not  attempt  to  revenge  his 
death,  but  leave  it  to  his  fellow-soldiers  to  do  him  justice.  He  must 
have  a poetical  genius,  and  be  well  acquainted  with  the  twelve  books 
of  poetry.  He  was  to  stand  at  the  distance  of  nine  ridges  of  land, 
with  only  a stick  and  a target,  and  nine  soldiers  were  to  throw  their 
javelins  at  him  at  once,  from  which  he  was  to  defend  himself  unhurt, 
or  be  rejected.  He  was  to  run  through  a wood  with  his  hair  plaited, 
pursued  by  a company  of  the  militia,  the  breadth  of  a tree  only  being 
allowed  between  them  at  setting  out,  without  being  overtaken,  or  his 
hair  falling  loose  about  him.  He  was  to  leap  over  a tree  as  high  as 
his  forehead,  and  easily  stoop  under  another  that  was  as  low  as  his 
knee.  These  qualifications  being  proved,  he  was  then  to  take  an  oath 
of  allegiance  to  the  king,  and  of  fidelity  to  Finn,  his  commander-in- 
chief. 


86 


NOTES. 


“The  reader  will  judge  of  the  propriety  of  most  of  these  qualifica- 
tions ; but  this  was  not  everything  that  was  required.  Every  soldier, 
before  he  was  enrolled,  was  obliged  to  subscribe  to  the  following 
articles  : That  if  ever  he  was  disposed  to  marry,  he  would  not  conform 
to  the  mercenary  custom  of  requiring  a portion  with  his  wife ; but, 
without  regard  to  her  fortune,  he  would  choose  a woman  for  her  virtue 
and  courteous  manners.  That  he  would  not  offer  violence  to  any 
woman.  That  he  would  be  charitable  to  the  poor,  as  far  as  his  abili- 
ties would  permit.  And  that  he  would  not  turn  his  back  nor  refuse 
to  fight  with  ten  men  of  any  other  nation. 

‘ ‘ In  the  times  of  peace  they  were  required  to  defend  the  inhabitants 
against  the  attempts  of  thieves  or  robbers  ; to  quell  riots  or  insurrec- 
tions ; to  levy  fines,  and  secure  estates  that  were  confiscated  to  the 
crown ; in  short,  to  suppress  all  seditious  and  traitorous  practices  in 
the  beginning,  and  to  appear  under  arms  when  any  breach  of  faith 
required  it.  They  had  no  subsistence-money  from  the  monarchs,  but 
during  the  winter  half  year,  when  they  were  billetted  on  the  country, 
and  dispersed  in  different  quarters.  During  the  other  half  of  the  year 
they  were  encamped  about  the  fields,  and  obliged  to  fish  and  hunt  for 
their  support.  This  was  not  only  a great  ease  to  the  monarch  and  his 
subjects,  but  it  inured  the  troops  to  fatigue,  preserved  them  in  health 
and  vigor,  and  accustomed  them  to  lie  abroad  in  the  field  ; and  in  a 
country  which  abounded  so  much  with  venison,  fish,  and  fowl,  as 
Ireland  did,  it  was  no  other  hardship  than  what  was  proper  to  the  life 
of  soldiers,  to  be  obliged  to  draw  their  subsistence  in  the  summer  sea- 
son from  those  articles. 

* ‘ They  made  but  one  meal  in  the  four-and- twenty  hours,  which  was 
always  in  the  evening  ; and  besides  the  common  method  of  roasting 
their  meat  before  the  fire,  they  had  another  very  remarkable.  The 
places  which  they  chose  to  encamp  in  were  always  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  water,  when  great  fires  were  made  in  order  to  heat  some  large 
stones  for  soddening  their  meat.  Here  large  pits  were  dug,  into  which 
they  threw  a layer  of  stones  when  they  were  hot,  and  then  a layer  of 
flesh,  till  the  pit  was  full,  or  their  quantity  of  meat  was  finished. 


NOTES. 


87 


“If  tlieir  exercise  led  them,  as  it  often  did,  to  too  great  a distance 
to  return  to  their  camp,  as  soon  as  dinner  was  ended,  they  erected 
little  temporary  tents  or  booths,  in  which  their  beds  were  laid  out  and 
constructed  with  great  exactness.  Next  the  ground  were  placed  the 
small  branches  of  trees,  upon  which  was  strewed  a large  quantity  of 
moss,  and  over  all  were  laid  bundles  of  rushes,  which  made  a very 
commodious  lodging,  and  which,  in  the  old  manuscripts,  are  called 
4 the  three  beds  of  the  Irish  Militia.’  The  marks  of  their  fires  con- 
tinue deep  in  the  earth,  in  many  parts  of  the  island,  to  this  day ; and 
when  the  husbandman  turns  up  the  black  burnt  clay  with  his  plough, 
he  immediately  knows  the  occasion  of  it ; and  even  now  that  soil  is 
called  by  the  name  of  < Fullacht  Finn.’  The  Militia  were  as  much 
under  discipline  when  encamped  thus  in  the  summer  as  when  they 
were  at  quarters,  and  they  were  at  stated  times  obliged  to  perform 
their  military  exercise.  Besides  these  regulations  for  the  army,  the 
celebrated  Finn,  who  was  as  great  a philosopher  as  a general,  drew  up 
several  axioms  of  jurisprudence,  which  were  incorporated  into  the 
celestial  judgments  of  the  state.” — Dr.  Warner's  History  of  Ireland , 
p.  289. 

From  Miss  Brooks’  translation  of  parts  of  the  “Rhapsody  of  Ossian,” 
before  alluded  to,  it  may  not  be  uninteresting  to  subjoin  here  a de- 
scription of  the  character  of  the  Irish  Fingall. 

“Finn  of  the  large  and  liberal  soul  of  bounty  : exceeding  all  his 
countrymen  in  the  prowess  and  accomplishments  of  a warrior.  King 
of  mild  majesty  and  numerous  bards. 

‘ ‘ The  ever-open  house  of  kindness  was  his  heart : the  seat  of 
undaunted  courage  ; great  was  the  chief  of  the  mighty  Finii ! — Finn 
of  the  perfect  soul,  the  consummate  wisdom  ; whose  knowledge  pene- 
trated events,  and  pierced  through  the  veil  of  futurity.  Finn  of  the 
splendid  and  ever-during  glories. 

“ Bright  were  his  blue  rolling  eyes,  and  his  hair  like  flowing  gold  ! 
Lovely  were  the  charms  of  his  unaltered  beauty,  and  his  cheeks  like 
the  glowing  rose. 


88 


NOTES. 


“Each  female  heart  overflowed  with  affection  for  the  hero  whose 
bosom  was  like  the  whiteness  of  the  chalky  cliff ; for  the  mild  son  of 
Morni  : Finn,  the  king  of  the  glittering  blades  of  war.’' 


Fage  31,  lines  24  and  25. 

. . . . ‘ * Were  there  one 

Of  all  my  heroes  that  are  yone.,} 

Invincible  as  the  prowess  of  the  Finii  was  deemed,  they  met  with 
a signal  defeat  at  the  battle  of  Gabhra,  fought  between  them  and 
Cairbre,  the  monarch  of  Ireland.  Finn  and  his  grandson  Osgur,  with 
their  most  famous  chiefs,  fell  on  the  field  : and  Ossian3*  seems  to  have 
been  the  only  member  of  his  family  left  to  mourn  over  their  extinc- 
tion, which  he  often  does,  or  is  made  to  do,  in  “old  Irish  composi- 
tions” attributed  to  him. 

The  annals  of  Innispaclm,  and  other  ancient  records  and  poems,  in- 
form us  that  the  battle  of  Gabhra  was  fought  in  the  year  of  our  Lord 
296.  f lire  cause  of  this  battle  (as  well  as  I can  collect  from  various 
accounts)  was  pretty  nearly  as  follows. 

“The  celebrated  body  of  the  Finii  had  grown  to  a formidable  de- 
gree of  power.  Conscious  of  the  defence  they  afforded  their  country, 
and  the  glory  they  reflected  on  it,  they  became  overbearing  and  inso- 
lent, esteeming  too  highly  of  their  merits,  and  too  meanly  of  their  re- 
wards : and  this  the  more  as  they  perceived  the  monarch  disposed  to 
slight  their  services  and  envy  their  fame. 

“It  would  be  tedious  here  to  relate  the  various  causes  assigned 
by  different  writers  for  the  discontents  which  occasioned  this  battle. 
Historians,  in  general,  lay  the  blame  upon  the  Finii  : and  the  poets, 
taking  part  with  their  favorite  heroes,  cast  the  whole  odium  upon 

* According  to  the  book  of  Hoath. 

t The  author  is  aware  of  the  gross  anachronism  committed  by  making  St. 
Patrick,  who  came  to  Ireland  toward  the  end  of  the  fourth  century,  a cotempo- 
rary with  Ossian,  who  fought  in  the  battle  of  Gabhra  in  296. 


NOTES. 


89 


Cairbre,  tlic  monarch  of  Ireland.  The  fault  most  likely  was  mutual, 
and  both  parties  suffered  for  it.  Cairbre  himself  was  killed  in  the 
action,  and  a dreadful  slaughter  ensued  among  his  troops  : but  those 
of  the  Finii  were  almost  totally  destroyed,  for,  relying  upon  that  valor 
which  they  fondly  deemed  invincible,  they  rushed  into  the  field 
against  odds  that  madmen  alone  would  have  encountered.” — Miss 
Brooks , pp.  146-7. 


Page  54,  lines  17  and  18. 

11  And  called  her  the  lady  and  the  queen 
Of  that  wild  and  desolate  scene.  ’ ’ 

When  the  above  lines  were  written,  the  author  had  never  seen  Mr. 
Barry  Cornwall’s  beautiful  poem,  “The  Sicilian  Story,”  to  the  follow- 
ing passage  of  which  the  quotation  may  be  supposed  to  have  a gen- 
eral resemblance. 


“He  bound 

The  fillets  like  a coronet  around 

Her  brows,  and  bade  her  smile  and  be  a queen/ 


90 


NOTES. 


NOTES  TO  THE  FOURTH  DUAN. 


Page  64,  line  8. 

“ The  blazing  sun  . . 

The  standard  of  the  Finii. 


Page  64,  line  10. 

* 1 Morni ’ s host 9 9 

Much  contention  existed  at  one  period  between  the  Finii  and  the 
tribe  of  Morni.  Cumhal  or  Comhal  was  killed  in  a battle  fought  be- 
tween them ; a subsequent  reconciliation,  however,  took  place,  and 
ever  after  the  tiibe  of  Morni  was  subservient  to  the  Finii,  both  parties 
living  in  the  utmost  concord,  and  the  former  experiencing  much 
kindness  'and  attention  from  Finn  Mac  Comhal. 


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